Classic Poem

Sing now no hymn nor chant a dirge
Nor weep for any dead thing,
Still in her veins an ardent sting
Her beating blood can urge.

To the white pale lily she is kind,
Rearing few flowers that are red,
Yet sometimes weeds grow there instead…
In the conservatory of her mind.

A quick caress she gives the rose,
Lilac, geranium—all in season…
Oh, if she might have seen a reason
For powdering her nose!

Too deft at lavender and chintz,
Too cold for wooing but not wan,
She dreams a springtime gentleman
To have come a springtime since.