The Poplar

1892 –

1962

Why do you always stand there shivering
Between the white stream and the road?

The people pass through the dust
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;
The waggoners go by at dawn;
The lovers walk on the grass path at night.

Stir from your roots, walk, poplar!
You are more beautiful than they are.

I know that the white wind loves you,
Is always kissing you and turning up
The white lining of your green petticoat.
The sky darts through you like blue rain,
And the grey rain drips on your flanks
And loves you.
And I have seen the moon
Slip his silver penny into your pocket
As you straightened your hair;
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees.

I know you, poplar;
I have watched you since I was ten.
But if you had a little real love,
A little strength,
You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers
And go walking down the white road
Behind the waggoners.

There are beautiful beeches
Down beyond the hill.
Will you always stand there shivering?

This poem is in the public domain.

I am a garden of red tulips And late daffodils and bay-hedges, A small sunk garden About an oblong pool With three grey lead Dutch tanks— I am this garden shattered and blown With a day-long western gale And bursts of rapid rain. There are dank petals in the ruffled waters, And muddy flowers upon the path. The grass is covered with torn leaves. God of gardens, dear small god of gardens, Grant me faint glow of sunlight, A last bird hopping in the quiet haze, Then let the night swoop swiftly, Fold round and crush out life For ever.

Vagabonds of beauty, Wistful exquisite waifs From a lost, and a forgotten, and a lovely land, We cannot comfort you Though our souls yearn for you. You are delicate strangers In a gloomy town, Stared at and hated— Gold crocus blossoms in a drab lane. We cannot comfort you; Your life is anguish; All we can do— Mutely bring pungent herbs and branches of oak And resinous scented pine wreaths To hid the crown of thorny pain Crushing your white frail foreheads.

They have torn the gold tettinx From my hair; And wrenched the bronze sandals From my ankles. They have taken from me my friend Who knew the holy wisdom of poets, Who had drunk at the feast Where Simonides sang. No more do I walk the calm gardens In the white mist of olives; No more do I take the rose-crown From the white hands of a maiden. I, who was free, am a slave; The Muses have forgotten me, The gods do not hear me. Here there are no flowers to love; But afar off I dream that I see Bent poppies and the deathless asphodel.

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The Poplar

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The Poplar

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