Fruit Of The Flower

My father is a quiet

With sober, steady ways;

For simile, a folded fan;

His nights are like his days.

My mother's life is puritan,

No hint of cavalier,

A pool so calm you're sure it

Have little depth to fear.

And yet my father's eyes can

How full his life has been;

There haunts them yet the languid

Of some still sacred sin.

And though my mother chants of God,

And of the mystic river,

I've seen a bit of checkered

Set all her flesh aquiver.

Why should he deem it pure mischanceA son of his is

To do a naked tribal

Each time he hears the rain?

Why should she think it devil's

That all my songs should

Of love and lovers, broken heart,

And wild sweet agony?

Who plants a seed begets a bud,

Extract of that same root;

Why marvel at the hectic

That flushes this wild fruit?