Poems (Dorr)/Discontent

by Julia Caroline Dorr

For works with similar titles, see Discontent.

DISCONTENT

I.

(The Brier Rose speaks.)

I cling to the garden wall
 Outside, where the grasses grow;
Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun,
 And the yellow mulleins blow.
The dock and the thistle crowd
 Close to my shrinking feet,
And the gypsy yarrow shares
 My cup and the food I eat.

The rude winds toss my hair,
 The wild rains beat me down,
The wayside dust lies white
 And thick on my leafy crown.,
I cannot keep my robes
 From wanton fingers free,
And the veriest beggar dares
 To stop and gaze at me.

Sometimes I climb and climb
 To the top of the garden wall,
And I see her where she stands,
 Stately and fair and tall—
My sister, the red, red Rose,
 My sister, the royal one,
The fairest flower that blows
 Under the summer sun!

What wonder that she is fair?
 What wonder that she is sweet?
The treasures of earth and air
 Lie at her dainty feet;
The choicest fare is hers,
 Her cup is brimmed with wine;
Rich are her emerald robes,
 And her bed is soft and fine.

She need not lift her head
 Even to sip the dew;
No rude touch makes her shrink
 The whole long summer through.
Her servants do her will;
 They come at her beck and call.
Oh, rare is life in my lady's bowers
 Inside of the garden wall!

II.

(The Garden Rose speaks.)

The garden path runs east,
 And the garden path runs west;
There's a tree by the garden gate,
 And a little bird in a nest.
It sings and sings and sings!
 Does the bird, I wonder, know
How, over the garden wall,
 The bright days come and go?

The garden path runs north,
 And the garden path runs south;
The brown bee hums in the sun,
 And kisses the lily's mouth;
But it flies away, away,
 To the birch-tree, dark and tall.
What do you find, O brown bee,
 Over the garden wall?

With ruff and farthingale,
 Under the gardener's eye,
In trimmest guise I stand—
 Oh, who so fine as I?
But even the light wind knows
 That it may not play with me,
Nor touch my beautiful lips
 With a wild caress and free.

Oh, straight is the garden path,
 And smooth is the garden bed,
Where never an idle weed
 Dares lift its careless head.
But I know outside the wall
 They gather, a merry throng;
They dance and flutter and sing,
 And I listen all day long.

The Brier Rose swings outside;
 Sometimes she climbs so high
I can see her sweet pink face
 Against the blue of the sky.
What wonder that she is fair,
 Whom no strait bonds enthrall?
Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose,
 Outside of the garden wall!