To Oscar Wilde There was the summer. There Warm hours of leaf-lipped song, And dripping amber sweat. O sweet to see The great trees condescend to cast a pearl Down to the myrtles; and the proud leaves curl In ecstasy Fruit of a quest, despair. Smart of a sullen wrong. Where may they hide them yet? One hour, yet one, To find the mossgod lurking in his nest, To see the naiads' floating hair, caressed By fragrant sun- Beams. Softly lulled the eves The song-tired birds to sleep, That other things might tell Their secrecies. The beetle humming neath the fallen leaves Deep in what hollow do the stern gods keep Their bitter silence? By what listening well Where holy trees, Song-set, unfurl eternally the sheen Of restless green?
To Arthur Edmonds
Geranium, houseleek, laid in oblong beds
On the trim grass. The daisies' leprous stain
Is fresh. Each night the daisies burst again,
Though every day the gardener crops their heads.
A wistful child, in foul unwholesome shreds,
Recalls some legend of a daisy chain
That makes a pretty necklace. She would fain
Make one, and wear it, if she had some threads.
Sun, leprous flowers, foul child. The asphalt burns.
The garrulous sparrows perch on metal Burns.
Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with their wings.
He does not sing, he only wonders why
He is sitting there. The sparrows sing. And I
Yield to the strait allure of simple things.