Quince To Lilac: To G. H.

Dear Lilac, how enchanting     To hear of you this way!     The Man who comes a-mouching     To visit me each day     Says you too have a lover     Far lovelier than I.     And from his rapt description,     She loves you gloriously.     The Man prowls out each morning     To see if spring's begun.     What infinite amusement     These creatures offer one!     He asks me such conundrums     As no one ever heard:     The name of April's father,     The trail of every bird,     What keeps me warm in winter,     Who wakes me up in time,     And why procrastination     Is such a fearful crime.     And yet, who knows? He may be     Our equal ages hence--     With such pathetic glimmers     Of weird intelligence!     But this your blessed alien,     Why strays she roving here?     Was Orpheus not her brother,     Persephone her peer?     Was she not once a dryad     Whom Syrinx lulled to sleep     Beside the Dorian water,     And still her eyelids keep     The glad unperished secret     From centuries of joy,     And memories of the morning     When Helen sailed for Troy?     Is her name Gertrude, Kitty,     Hypatia, or what?     I seem to half remember,     And yet have quite forgot.     That soft Hellenic laughter!     I marvel you don't make     An effort to be early     In budding for her sake.     Just fancy hearing daily     That velvet voice of hers!     How do you quell the riot     Of sap her coming stirs?     Perhaps she puts her face up,     (Dear Charity she is!)     For messages of summer     And better worlds than this.     You cannot blush, poor Lilac;     It is not in your race.     I simply should go crimson,     If I were in your place.     Do tell her all your secrets!     The Man declares she knows     Better than any mortal     The wonder-trick of prose.     Our prose, I mean,--how beauty     Appears to you and me;     The truth that seems so simple,     Which they call poetry.     They put it down in writing     And label it with tags,     The funny conscious people     Who mask in colored rags!     They have a thing called science,     With phrases strange and pat.     My dear, can you imagine     Intelligence like that?     And when they first discover     That yellows are not greens,     They pucker up their foreheads     And ponder what it means.     And then those cave-like places,     Churches and Capitols,     Where they all come together     Like troops of talking dolls,     To govern, as they term it,     (It's really very odd!)     And have what they call worship     Of something they call God.     But Kitty, or whatever     May be her tender name,     Is more like us. She guesses     What sets the year aflame.     She knows beyond her senses;     Do tell her all you can!     The funny people need it,--     At least, so says The Man.     Good-by, dear. I must idle.     Sweet suns and happy rains!     How nice to have these humans     With their inventive brains,--     Their little scraps of paper!     They certainly evince     Remarkable discernment.     Your ever loving Quince.