I do not barter palm trees in a western gale,
Graceful white trunks bending to leeward,
Or frosty waves against blackened rocks,
Or sea gulls flying seaward.
I give only the white birch tree
With her lofty head in the sky,
Wild geese flying northward,
And the South wind's sigh.
I do not bring the tropical moon,
Or the nightingale's song when dusk is falling
But only a western moon over a rolling plain
And the coyote's calling.
Nor can I offer the gardenia's chalky whiteness
Against a clinging night,
But only the fragrance of roses across a dew-drenched lawn
And a lost love's plight.