Flowers of Passion

The dancers have departed, dear,
And the last song has been sung—;
The red-stained glasses mock my gaze
And the fiddle lies unstrung.
And I’m alone, alone once more,
Save for your sweet brown face
That comes reproachfully to me
In this unholy place.
I’ve kissed a thousand flowers, my own,
Gone drunk with their perfume;
But found out, when the madness passed,
You were the one pure bloom.
I’ve come to realise at last
How awful it may be
To cut adrift from sacred ties
And be completely free.
But life grows many flowers, my love,
Within its garden wall,
And passions are the strangest
And the deadliest of all.