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
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