THE MULBERRY
Within our garden walls you see A huge old-fashioned mulberry Whose purple fruit in summer falls Into the shade below the walls.
Its blackened trunk grows grim and hard From the harsh gravel of the yard, Its crest beholds the winds go by And scans the milky evening sky.
And like this tree my soul makes mirth, (Though rooted deep in blackened earth) For it shall grow till it hath sight (The walls o’er-topped) of endless light.
THE WINDOW-SILL
The fuchsias dangle on their stem, The baby girl looks up at them, The light comes through the muslin frill Upon the painted window-sill.
She cannot see the world outside Where men in snorting motors ride, Each speeding from his far abode To town, along the Fulham Road.