The smells are insubstantial—
There’s no denying that.
They walk right through, transparently,
The walls I tremble at.
And all day long they saunter
In and out my nose:
Orris-root and camphor,
And wild wet rose.
Their names and occupations
And secret hopes I share:
Salty sea and loamy earth
And quick-scented air.
Strange, the daily habits—
Informal at the most—
Of smells that act like fairies,
Or nothing, or a ghost.
Strange. Yet all the verities
My heart is keeping green
Were never touched, and never heard,
And very seldom seen.