The mandrakes lift, like little mosques,
Their domes between the vines,
And butterflies for worshipers
Are flocking to their shrines.
And from tall, tapering mullein towers
And minarets of green,
The honey-bee muezzins drone
To bloodroot buds between,
That pilgrim-wise along the road
Come trooping to the light,
In pale green caftans closely wound
And turbans spotless white.
While all the way with budding things
Is tufted thicker than
The praying mats the Persian weaves
In streets of Ispahan.
And listen! with a lordly note
Like joyous burst of drums,
In gorgeous gown of gold and black
The oriole sultan comes!