37. The Lilacs of Lindale


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

And despair

In death?

Only the unbelieving are pathetic

Those who have faith

Can become divine.