Young and a conqueror, once on a day, Wild white Winter rode out this way; With his sword of ice and his banner of snow Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.
Winter was young then, young and strong; Now he is old, he has reigned too long. He shall be routed, he shall be slain; Summer shall come to her own again!
See the champion of Summer wake Little armies in field and brake: “Cruel and cold has King Winter been; Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!”
First the aconite dots the mould With little round cannon-balls of gold; Then, to help in the winter’s rout, Regiments of crocuses march out.
See the swords of the flag-leaves shine; See the shield of the celandine, And daffodil lances green and keen, To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.
Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings Banners that mock at defeated kings; And wherever the green of the new grass peers, See the array of victorious spears.
Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound Over the garden’s battle-ground, And lovely ladies crowd out to see The long procession of victory.
Little daisies with snowy frills, Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils, Primrose and cowslip, friends well met With white wood-sorrel and violet.
Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold; Thousands of buttercups licked with gold; Budding hedges and woods and trees— Spring brings freedom and life to these.
Then the triumphant Spring shall ride Over the happy countryside; Deep in the woods the birds shall sing: “The King is dead—long live the King!”
But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight; He will ride on through the meadows bright Till at Summer’s feet he shall light him down And lay at her feet the royal crown.
She will lean down where the roses twine Between the may-trees’ silver shine, And look in the eyes of the dying knight Who led his army and won her fight.
She will stoop to his lips and say, “Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!” While he smiles and sighs her arms between And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.
THE GARDEN REFUSED
There is a garden made for our delight, Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true. I know it, but I do not know the way. We slip and tumble in the doubtful night, Where everything is difficult and new, And clouds our breath has made obscure the day.
The blank unhappy towns, where sick men strive, Still doing work that yet is never done; The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate voice; The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive, The black injustice that puts out the sun: These are our portion, since they are our choice.
Yet there the garden blows with rose on rose, The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there; There the immortal lilies, heavenly sweet. O roses, that for us shall not unclose! O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear! O dewy lawns untrodden by our feet!
THESE LITTLE ONES
“What of the garden I gave?” God said to me; “Hast thou been diligent to foster and save The life of flower and tree? How have the roses thriven, The lilies I have given, The pretty scented miracles that Spring And Summer come to bring?
“My garden is fair and dear,” I said to God; “From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear. Green-trimmed its sod. The rose is red and bright, The lily a live delight; I have not lost a flower of all the flowers That blessed my hours.”
“What of the child I gave?” God said to me; “The little, little one I died to save And gave in trust to thee? How have the flowers grown That in its soul were sown, The lovely living miracles of youth And hope and joy and truth?”
“The child’s face is all white,” I said to God; “It cries for cold and hunger in the night: Its little feet have trod The pavement muddy and cold. It has no flowers to hold, And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.” “Thou fool!” God said.
THE DESPOT
The garden mould was damp and chill; Winter had had his brutal will Since over all the year’s content His devastating legions went.
The Spring’s bright banners came: there woke Millions of little growing folk Who thrilled to know the winter done, Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.
Not so the elect; reserved, and slow To trust a stranger-sun and grow, They hesitated, cowered and hid, Waiting to see what others did.
Yet even they, a little, grew, Put out prim leaves to day and dew, And lifted level formal heads In their appointed garden beds.
The gardener came: he coldly loved The flowers that lived as he approved, That duly, decorously grew As he, the despot, meant them to.
He saw the wildlings flower more brave And bright than any cultured slave; Yet, since he had not set them there, He hated them for being fair.
So he uprooted, one by one, The free things that had loved the sun, The happy, eager, fruitful seeds Who had not known that they were weeds.
THE MAGIC RING
Your touch on my hand is fire, Your lips on my lips are flowers. My darling, my one desire, Dear crown of my days and hours. Dear crown of each hour and day Since ever my life began. Ah! leave me—ah! go away— We two are woman and man.
To lie in your arms and see The stars melt into the sun; Till there is no you and me, Since you and I are one. To loose my soul to your breath, To bare my heart to your life— It is death, it is death, it is death! I am not your wife.
The hours will come and will go, But never again such an hour When the tides immortal flow And life is a flood, a flower . . . Wait for the ring; it is strong, It has a magic of might To make all that was splendid and wrong Sordid and right.
PHILOSOPHY
The sulky sage scarce condescends to see This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves; To him ’tis all illusion—only he Is real amid the visions he perceives.
No sage am I, and yet, by Love’s decree, To me the world’s a masque of shadows too, And I a shadow also—since to me The only real thing in life is—you.
THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME
Before your feet, My love, my sweet, Behold! your slave bows down; And in his hands From other lands Brings you another crown.
For in far climes, In bygone times, Myself was royal too: Oh, I have been A king, my queen, Who am a slave for you!
MAGIC
What was the spell she wove for me? Life was a common useful thing, An eligible building site To hold a house to shelter me. There were no woodlands whispering; No unimagined dreams at night About that house had folded wing, Disordering my life for me.
I was so safe until she came With starry secrets in her eyes, And on her lips the word of power. —Like to the moon of May she came, That makes men mad who were born wise— Within her hand the only flower Man ever plucked from Paradise; So to my half-built house she came.
She turned my useful plot of land Into a garden wild and fair, Where stars in garlands hung like flowers: A moonlit, lonely, lovely land. Dim groves and glimmering fountains there Embraced a secret bower of bowers, And in its rose-ringed heart we were Alone in that enchanted land.
What was the spell I wove for her, Her mad dear magic to undo? The red rose dies, the white rose dies, The garden spits me forth with her On the old suburban road I knew. My house is gone, and by my side A stranger stands with angry eyes And lips that swear I ruined her.
WINDFLOWERS
When I was little and good I walked in the dappled wood Where light white windflowers grew, And hyacinths heavy and blue.
The windflowers fluttered light, Like butterflies white and bright; The bluebells tremulous stood Deep in the heart of the wood.
I gathered the white and the blue, The wild wet woodland through, With hands too silly and small To clasp and carry them all.
Some dropped from my hands and died By the home-road’s grassy side; And those that my fond hands pressed Died even before the rest.
AS IT IS
If you and I Had wings to fly— Great wings like seagulls’ wings— How would we soar Above the roar Of loud unneeded things!
We two would rise Through changing skies To blue unclouded space, And undismayed And unafraid Meet the sun face to face.
But wings we know not; The feathers grow not To carry us so high; And low in the gloom Of a little room We weep and say good-bye.