Flower-Chained

Oh, there are gods who bind with law and fetter,
And goddesses who bind mortals with their grace.
But the Lady Beauty- ah, how much She is better,
To bind us to love Her with nothing but Her face!
She leads us, singing, across the brilliant grass,
And we weave our shackles out of flowers as we pass.

Our bowed heads are decked with crown and chaplet;
The least of our daughters has flowers for her hair.
In the smallest tasks of life we wear a coronet
Of blossoms sweet-smelling, springing bright and rare
Where the Lady Beauty's feet have spun on the grass.
And we weave our shackles out of flowers as we pass.

Our necks with garlands of violets are adorned;
At our throats at least one small dandelion always rests.
And in springtime, when for long winter we have mourned,
Our women dance with flowers bouncing on bare breasts.
Violet and dandelion, the evening's and sun's looking-glass!
And we weave our shackles out of flowers as we pass.

Our legs and our wrists are indeed bound with trailing chains,
Fetters that are made of the most delicate of flowers.
We walk and dance in worship carefully, taking pains
Not to break the blossom-ropes we wove throughout long hours.
We love the Lady Beauty, and the flowers are her glass.
And we weave our shackles out of flowers as we pass.

Our temples are fair and white places open to the breeze,
And winds stir the looped garlands of bluebells and carnations.
Our priest treads on rose petals scattered to his knees,
And daily leads us in chants to the Lady's fair creations.
Smiling vestal virgins carry up heliotrope for the sacred mass.
And we weave our shackles out of flowers as we pass.

Oh, some divinities worship the way of the punishing rod,
And some rely on heaven, and promises of eternal life.
But we say: whoever would do such a thing is not a true god,
And creates fear and torment on earth, and endless strife.
We worship the Lady Beauty, for Whom blossoms are a mass.
And we weave our shackles out of flowers as we pass.