PROVINCES
In our garden
Plant no thorny roses for me,
But water the mulberry tree
Whose blood the mourning doves consume
And scatter across the plain,
So that everywhere you go
You'll see me growing wild in a wooded
grove
Or standing as proud ornament shading
old
Villagers. Let the Spanish
gypsy relish
My soul in her shepherd pies
And the witty Frenchman compliment
His lemon tart with my poetic fruit.
Thus, I am shared---your poor man's gold---
My verdant leaves: province of silken
tapestries.
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