Independent Blossoms

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Independent Blossoms

When the spring boughs were told

Soon the rose will unfold

Herself in the bower

Of which she is queen,

Their blossoms, beguiling

The sad leaves, said smiling:

“No slaves to a flower

Have we ever been.”

Our lords are the birds.

And they love not in words;

They sing when we smile

And sob when we fall;

Her lord is the liar⁠—

The thief or the buyer⁠—

Who smells her the while

She lives, and that’s all.