III.— WISTERIA

Why do you peer at me, old man,

With eyes half shut,

From underneath the purple lanterns of your wisteria vine?

Your face is but a mask,

Showing neither joy nor sorrow;

But I know you bend your head to listen

When the wild geese go honking towards the south,

And your eyes grow wide with sadness,

When the last petal falls from the wisteria flower.

You, too, love beauty,

Or else why twine the purple wisteria about your door-posts,

Or pin a yellow gem upon your lilac gown?