Classic Poem

I know you would have known the names
Of all the flowers that fire the moor
Names that seem coloured from your soul
So elvish and perverse and pure.

Names that you might have made yourself,
As quaint as clouds, as kind as showers,
If Adam named the brutes and birds
I know 'twas Eve that named the flowers

The dog rose bends, a stricken saint,
Its fiery aureole rent and riven
The larkspur spurns the earth and climbs
Until it catch the tints of heaven.

The goatsbeard gilds the gloaming meads;
The foxglove — bells and steeple bent —
O'er this still chapel of the fields
Shakes out, instead of music, scent.

But you — in you are all the flowers
Not only in your body rare —
Those blue and starry flowers, your eyes,
That brown and fragrant flower, your hair.