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.
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.