You never sent (in a dream)
the very form, the very scent,
not heavy, not sensuous,
of orchids, piled in a great sheath,
and folded underneath on a bright scroll,
"Flower sent to flower;
for white hands, the lesser white,
less lovely of flower-leaf,"
"Lover to lover, no kiss,
no touch, but forever and ever this."
We live in alive metaphors.