Classic Poem

Again I bring you violets——
by your imperious request.
Again I bring you violets,
that you may wear them at your breast.
I pray you wear them at your breast.

Again I bring you violets.
Again I wait outside your door.
Again I kiss the violets,
even as I would you once more——
you, you, and you alone, once more.

Love, will you touch the flowers once,
although with playful fingertips,
and just for once, if only once,
play that the flowers are my lips——
play that your own lips touch my lips?

Love, should you touch the exotic flowers
with your exotic, fragile hand——
with fingers fragile as the flowers——
would you but try to understand?
Ah, shall you ever understand?

Love, I have learned to hate these flowers.
I often hate their very hue.
I force myself to kiss the flowers,
lest hating them be hating you.
I dare not think of hating you.

I am not sure that what I feel
toward violets is really hate.
But I am sure that what you feel
toward roses, will be rued too late——
with roses brought, but all too late.

And yet I come with violets.
Ah, love, when you are laid at rest,
there shall be violets, violets,
and surely violets at your breast.
Love, I shall place them at your breast.