LONG years have you been known to me, my friend, Open and honest do your deeds appear. But as these beauty-bordered paths I wend, I catch your meaning, hundredfold more clear. In warm rich dahlia's yellow, and the blue Of flax, as tender as a turquoise sky; From princely purple of the cosmos hue, Or white moon-flowers that by day must die, Deeper expression of you do I find, Depths that mere words ne'er told me, subtle hints Of soul beneath all showings of the mind, An emanation from these flower tints. Long years . . . at last, within this garden spot, You stand revealed, as earlier you were not. |