Many Voices | Page 8

smiles and sighs her arms between
And dies for the
Summer, dies for the Queen.
POEM: 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!
POEM: 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.
POEM: 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.
POEM: 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.
POEM: 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.
POEM: 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!
POEM: 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