Tulips

Scarlet tulips,
Blood drops of the smitten day,
Wounds in the thighs of Diana;
Golden tulips
Dripped from the crucible of the April sun;
And you velveted magentas of listening passion;—
But tulip of scarlet and gold and magenta
More lovely than these,
By what grace may my desiring fingers
Touch and caress its delicate volutes,
Ravishing to the senses,
And the dim wanderings of love?

What poignant and spiced fragrance lurks here!
What yearnings more voluptuous than tears!
What dreams more delicious than those
Under the closed eyes of desire!
What tender thirsts for the ultimate nectar!
What shell-hued lips parted in wonder
Of the unconquerable Aphrodite!

Adorable flower whose petals
Rest over the mouth of the consecrated amphora,
And move, unfold and close again
Like undersea geraniums amid warm tides,
What nymph of the grove, or god of the upland
Was not kind that I have known its mystical secrets
Even to the stippled bud of the golden ovule?