Cu fiecare nouă zi sunt din ce în ce mai sigur că filozofia mâncării va învinge.
I cannot eat the red, red rose, I cannot eat the white;
In vain the long laburnum glows,
Vain the camelia’s waxen snows.
The lily’s cream of light.
The lilac’s clustered chalices
Proffer their bounty sweet,
In vain; though very good for bees,
Man, with unstinted yearning sees,
Admires, but cannot eat.
Give me the lettuce that has cooled
Its heart in the rich earth,
Till every joyous leaf is schooled
To crisply crinkled mirth;
Give me the mustard and the cress,
Whose glistening stalklets stand
As silver white as nymphs by night
Upon the coral strand;
The winking radish round and red,
That like a ruby shines;
And the first blessing, onion shed
Where’er your lowness dines;
The wayward tomato’s glorious head,
Cool cucumber sliced small;
And let the imperial beetroot spread
her crimson over all.
Though shrinking poets will prefer
The common floral fashions,
With buds and blossoms hymn their Her,
These vegetable loves would stir
A flint-heart mineral’s passions.