50
A complaint.
The hidden place of its repose,
It is not vain nor waste.
Dear flowers, for you the wild-birds sing,
Shy fawns behold your blossoming,
And poets, dreaming, at your spring
Of visioned sweetness taste.
It is not vain nor waste.
Dear flowers, for you the wild-birds sing,
Shy fawns behold your blossoming,
And poets, dreaming, at your spring
Of visioned sweetness taste.
"And Love that bent the arching sky
Your fair creations satisfy."
Then, sliding into daylight, I
Turned my awakened eyes,
And lo! the voice was silent, flowers
Stood round me smiling as the hours,
Content enough with sun and showers,
Who mocked me with their cries?
Your fair creations satisfy."
Then, sliding into daylight, I
Turned my awakened eyes,
And lo! the voice was silent, flowers
Stood round me smiling as the hours,
Content enough with sun and showers,
Who mocked me with their cries?
