At the door of my kitchen I feed my flowers:
My pigeons, the silvery lilies that sweep
Over the garden the frost has slain,
Wild as beauty, and soft as sleep.

My flowers bloom up over chimney and stack,
Blue smoke-irises, bodiless things,
Orchids of pearl that I could not reach
Except that my hunger and thirst have wings.

And then, when my flowers of light have gone,
Vanished and gone as a shadow goes,
I kneel by the hearth in a little house,
And warm my heart at a burning rose.