Orchids

Orchids, it was, she liked. So much I learned.Always, outside my shop, she hesitated, turned,Stared at my pale green troll-flowers, again, again,With a queer dumb resentful painAs if their posturing airs and graces,The malice in their shrewd Second Empire faces,Bit into her like steel.Orchids, at half a crown! --Now, if she'd loved the brownOf dear old gillyflowers, the smooth creamOf arums, snowdrops frosted in a dream,Or childish primroses, laughing through dew,I'd have leaned out: "Missie, this bunch for you --There, I know how you feel."But orchids -- half a crown --She with her hair cut long,And that strange steely look -- yet not too strong,Not strong enough to stand the wind and rain.But women are like cats. Once give them milk,And you've got topaz eyes, black sensuous silkRound you for life; that small, confiding purrYou haven't the heart to stop. That's how I felt, with her.Orchids, at half a crown ... and women whoTake that from drunken sailors -- and grateful, too.I wonder, now, if she'd have thought this strange?One slim green flower thrust out: "Here, Missie, fair exchange."