Lilacs, False blue, White, Purple, Color of lilac, You have forgotten your Eastern origin, The veiled women with eyes like panthers, The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled Pashas. Now you are a very decent flower, A reticent flower, A curiously clear-cut, candid flower, Standing beside clean doorways, Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles, Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight And a hundred or two sharp blossoms. Maine knows you, Has for years and years; New Hampshire knows you, And Massachusetts And Vermont. Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island; Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea. You are brighter than apples, Sweeter than tulips, You are the great flood of our souls Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts, You are the smell of all Summers, The love of wives and children, The recollection of the gardens of little children, You are State Houses and Charters And the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows. May is lilac here in New England, May is a thrush singing "Sun up!" on a tip-top ash-tree, May is white clouds behind pine-trees Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky. May is a green as no other, May is much sun through small leaves, May is soft earth, And apple-blossoms, And windows open to a South wind. May is a full light wind of lilac From Canada to Narragansett Bay. Lilacs, False blue, White, Purple, Color of lilac, Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England, Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England, Lilac in me because I am New England, Because my roots are in it, Because my leaves are of it, Because my flowers are for it, Because it is my country And I speak to it of itself And sing of it with my own voice Since certainly it is mine. TWENTY-FOUR HOKKU ON A MODERN THEME I Again the larkspur, Heavenly blue in my garden. They, at least, unchanged. II How have I hurt you? You look at me with pale eyes, But these are my tears. III Morning and evening-- Yet for us once long ago Was no division. IV I hear many words. Set an hour when I may come Or remain silent. V In the ghostly dawn I write new words for your ears-- Even now you sleep. VI This then is morning. Have you no comfort for me Cold-colored flowers? VII My eyes are weary Following you everywhere. Short, oh short, the days! VIII When the flower falls The leaf is no more cherished. Every day I fear. IX Even when you smile Sorrow is behind your eyes. Pity me, therefore. X Laugh--it is nothing. To others you may seem gay, I watch with grieved eyes. XI Take it, this white rose. Stems of roses do not bleed; Your fingers are safe. XII