There is an odor present in green things,
From lowly moss that creeps across the stone,
Soil building as it goes; in iris clone
Before it flowers; from the vine that rings
Old houses, old itself how many springs?
In rare spiced form, I get it with the moan
Of bleak wind through the evergreen, that lone
Step-child of winter to which summer clings.
Beneath the eye of science, this wild smell
May yield to analyzing, be the pet
Of major projects, start industries, quell
Worse odors, create millionaires, and yet
On country lanes it sends me, in its spell,
As close to Heaven as a man can get.
by Ray Romine Sunday, November 25, 1951
