Independent Blossoms

When the spring boughs were told
Soon the rose will unfold
  Herself in the bower
      Of which she is queen,
Their blossoms, beguiling
The sad leaves, said smiling:
  “No slaves to a flower
      Have we ever been.”

Our lords are the birds.
And they love not in words;
  They sing when we smile
      And sob when we fall;
Her lord is the liar⁠—
The thief or the buyer⁠—
  Who smells her the while
      She lives, and that’s all.