They hang violet globes from the trees
Like hearts in the bosoms of leaves,
Pendulous in summer rain,
Crowning the fence.
Their perfumed breath
Hangs heavy on the air,
Drugging the sense like opiate wine.
Who can doubt when such incense
Floats on the breeze?
And who believes
Under such anaesthetic
There is pain
Only the unbelieving are pathetic
Those who have faith
Can become divine.