 | In Russet & Silver |  |
8
DISCIPLINE
My life is full of scented fruits,
My garden blooms with stocks and cloves;
Yet o'er the wall my fancy shoots,
And hankers after harsher loves.
My garden blooms with stocks and cloves;
Yet o'er the wall my fancy shoots,
And hankers after harsher loves.
‘Ah! why,’—my foolish heart repines,—
‘Was I not housed within a waste?
These velvet flowers and syrop-wines
Are sweet, but are not to my taste.
‘Was I not housed within a waste?
These velvet flowers and syrop-wines
Are sweet, but are not to my taste.
‘A howling moor, a wattled hut,
A piercing smoke of sodden peat,
The savour of a roasted nut,
Would make my weary pulses beat.’
A piercing smoke of sodden peat,
The savour of a roasted nut,
Would make my weary pulses beat.’
O stupid brain that blindly swerves,
O heart that strives not, nor endures,
Since flowers are hardships to your nerves,
Thank heaven a garden-lot is yours.
O heart that strives not, nor endures,
Since flowers are hardships to your nerves,
Thank heaven a garden-lot is yours.
| In Russet & Silver | |