TO
MRS. THEODORE BECK
And I rove on the breeze with the world of bees
like the shadow of a bee:
For a dead moonflower which the worms devour
is the tomb of the soul of me.
O the hum of the bees in the mango trees
it murmurs _taboo! taboo!_
_Should a dead moonflower which the worms devour
smell sweet as the mangoes do?_
What! shall I deem my flower a dream
when I do find, each morn,
Wet honey sips left on my lips,
and in my heart, a thorn?