When the spring boughs were told
Soon the rose will unfold
Herself in the bower
Of which she is queen,
Their blossoms, beguiling
The sad leaves, said smiling :
'No slaves to a flower
Have we ever been.'
Our lords are the birds.
And they love not in words ;
They sing when we smile
And sob when we fall ;
Her lord is the liar —
The thief or the buyer —
Who smells her the while
She lives, and that's all.