Not the green eaves of our young woods alone
Shelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed;
In the hard quartz, by some old April sown,
Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst.
“Here's pansies, they're for thoughts” — weak thoughts though fair;
June sees their opening, June their swift decay.
But those stone bourgeons stand for thoughts more rare,
Whose patient crystals colored day by day.
Might I so cut my flowers within the rock,
And prison there their sweet escaping breath;
Their petals then the winter's frost should mock,
And only Time's slow chisel work their death.
If out of those embedded purple blooms
Were quarried cups to hold the purple wine,
Greek drinkers thought the glorious, maddening fumes
Were cooled with radiance of that gem divine.
Might I so wed the crystal and the grape,
Passion's red heart and plastic Art's endeavor,
Delirium should take on immortal shape,
Dancing and blushing in strong rock forever.