Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/A Strange Country

by Sarah Piatt

A STRANGE COUNTRY.

It's a strange story I must tell
Of a strange country, Louis? Well,
The strangest country that I know
Is one where palm-trees do not grow;
It lies within the very reach
 Of your two hands, and blue-birds flit
Among the flowers of pear and peach,
 In pleasant dews, all over it.

In this strange country, then, last night,
A lady in the gracious light
Of garden-lamps and rising moon
(Hush! you may do your guessing soon),
With bits of stone she chose to wear,
 That elfin queens, perhaps, had lost,
Outflashed the fire-flies in the air,—
 And what a sum her party cost!

This morning, with a beard as white
As his own shroud should be, in sight
Of her high windows' precious lace,
A man—with, oh! so sad a face
One scarce could look at it for tears—
 Stood with a staff, and slowly said:
"It's the first time in all these years;
 But, Madam, I must ask for bread."

The lady, lily-like, within
Her hands, that did not toil nor spin,
Held all sweet things this world can give;
The man, for just the breath to live,
Early and late, in sun and snow,
 Had done his best.—I thought you knew!
. . . It must be a strange country, though,
 Where such strange stories can be true.