  The mandrakes lift, like little mosques, Their domes between the vines, And butterflies for worshipers Are flocking to their shrines. And from tall, tapering mullein towers And minarets of green, The honey-bee muezzins drone To bloodroot buds between, That pilgrim-wise along the road Come trooping to the light, In pale green caftans closely wound And turbans spotless white. While all the way with budding things Is tufted thicker than The praying mats the Persian weaves In streets of Ispahan. And listen! with a lordly note Like joyous burst of drums, In gorgeous gown of gold and black The oriole sultan comes!
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