Orchid

In ideals you lie,

Tempest storms within my eye,

And tranquil humming songs,

Sung by a million orange wrens,

Who can heal hearts like no one can,

All night they do, and all day long.

Such strange love, indeed,

That fills my heart with solemn creed,

To you be true through eternity,

Swear I again in prayer and word,

Though all seems quite absurd,

To believe in dreaming reality.

And ghosts of poets lost,

Keats, Byron, Crabbe, and Frost,

Tell my lips and tongue what to say,

To keep your haunting image near,

To pass the time and kill my fear

All the night, and all the day.

And a flower I pick for thee,

Just one that symbolizes to me,

Beauty, grace, and natural wonder,

That snakes my soul with velvet vines,

Wraps my mind with soft bell chimes,

Then sweetly tears my heart asunder.