On Arranging a Bowl of Violets

I DIP my hands in April among your faces tender,
O woven of blue air and ecstasies of light!
Breathed words of the Earth-Mother — although it is November —
You wing my soul with memories adorable and white.
I hear you call each other:
“Ah, Sweet, do you remember
The garden that we haunted — its spaces of delight ?
The sound of running water — the day’s long lapse of splendor —
The winds that begged our fragrance and loved us in the night ?”