THE BROKEN HEART
A wind came whispering of many things To a garden set apart;And it seemed to me, on its scented wings It carried a broken heart—The heart of a woman that could not restExcept in the hush of a blossom's breast.
Have they buried her out in some arid place, Wire fences and long grey plains,With the yellowing grasses above her face Where the cracked earth, crying for balm of rainsUnder the frown of the cloudless skies,Lets the sun slip through to her tear-sick eyes?
The wind throbbed into a lily's cup, It cried like a babe o'er a withered rose,And it climbed to the linked wistarias up And rippled down where the lupin grows,Till the dust of the woman's heart was setIn the moist, sweet greenness of mignonette.
The noon is here, and the breezes flag; But a bee, who hid in the mignonette,Wings heavily with its treasure bag, Such full reward has its delving met,That I think, as I watch the laden start,"There was honey still in that broken heart!"
