Outside among the garden beds
The wind went like a laughing boy,
And caught the poppies by the heads,
And chased the honey-bees for joy.
The slanting patch of sunlight crept
Along the floor, across the wall,
And I was there and laughed and wept,
And laughed again to see it all.
MADHOUSE GARDEN
ALOOF he heareth yet the vulgar urge
And throng his realm, and groweth glad of bars.
It is a gentle kingly thaumaturge
Hath made a net of little silver stars,
And snared contentment, that great golden carp,
The moon contentment, that shall never die,
And charmeth him upon a tender harp,
And hath him in a net of lazuli.
Thus I shall hear you crying presently,
And shall look forth with questioning dream-dimmed eyes
Upon your turmoil and perplexity,
Out of whatever hell or paradise
The maker of nets is come to, bye and bye;
And shall not understand or sympathize.
G. D. DESMOND
(SOMERVILLE)
HOME-COMING
I COME back to my garment of hills
Now my soul is laid bare.
For I gave him my lips and my limbs
And my hands, and long hair—
I gave him all things that were mine,
This my garment of clay.
So have need of my garment of hills,
To hide me away—
O high hills, O loved hills, O hills
That are healing and strength,
I have grown to your measure at last,
I can wear you at length.
I have loved, so my soul is upgrown,
Adult in its nakedness
And I, as the naked, cry.
* * * * *
And the wild, kind hills are my dress.