Between the Covers

I have plucked
Every primrose and daisy
Sprouting in myriad colours
On every wild vegetation.

I have also plucked
All the flowers on my path
In their youthful fragrance
Of spilled out pollen,
And in their sealed-dreams,
Clinging intimately to the
Tender stems of unknown creepers.

I don’t know
For whom they bloomed.
For the hot Sun?
For the cool Moon?
Or for the soothing South Wind ?

Just see!
The flowers have never complained
-Either loud or in whispers-
Or perhaps
I have not cared to heed
Their effeminate indignation
Against my reckless passion.

Believe me.
I have also not spared
All the early flowers
Of Spring and Summer
Grown in the distant meadows
Only to press them for you
Between the covers.