WITH THE GIFT OF SPRING FLOWERS

	You my pavilion and my power,
by whom to sleep and wake and not forget,
	we cast the seed of every flower
when your and my uncovered knowledge met:
		in token of that hour,
the petals of sharp spring are valent yet.

	As cold and bitter as the wine
of winter graves, and red as childhood grief,
	yours be the calyces; and mine,
the symbol of the scabbards of green leaf:
		true neither way, but sign 
against the superstition of the thief.
	
	Let symbols go by opposites,
like dreams, and all the dancing-maze of joy
	misname itself; and thus the writs
our years may draft against us shall destroy
		only the lie and its 
pale worm or virus at their dark employ.