“You say I touch the barberries As a lover his mistress? What a curious fancy! One must be delicate, you know— They have bitter thorns. You say my hand is hurt? Oh no, it was my breast, It was crushed and pressed. I mean—why yes, of course, of course— There is a bright drop—isn’t there?— Right on my finger; Just the color of a barberry, But it comes from my heart.
Do you love barberries? In the autumn When the sun’s desire Touches them to a glory of crimson and gold? I love them best then. There is something splendid about them: They are not afraid Of being warm and glad and bold; They flush joyously, Like a cheek under a lover’s kiss; They bleed cruelly Like a dagger wound in the breast; They flame up madly for their little hour, Knowing they must die. Do you love barberries?”