These are my flowers, The fishes swimming in the brook, And all—the daffodils are dawning, Through thin mist, whispering And the warm-spoken petals lighting Up in silver glimmers— In their ecstatic trembling. For spring wander in And lift the wandering seed, In a collision of colors speaking, Pause moments spreading; For our resembling heritages Speak softly as the ballads grow, From murmurs to sway with wild. Listen softly the thunders play As green— Brittle as vices, buried humors— Confirm your wild lies, dear flowers. For in my quickened heart, jeweled, I can feel the virgin grasses,
Spring out, Crawl along, wild silk and mire. No shying away— For the fish shall leap and dance. I can let them laugh from their shoals, Calling me above the waters— To tender bouquets of solemn grace.

• Hilda Doolittle