Poems (Forrest)/In dark gardens
IN DARK GARDENS
The children brought field daisies in, White frills about a yellow face,They brought her broom from stony hills, And violets of a marshy place,But still, before her spinning-wheel,Listless she sat, with unwound reel. . . .
She would not heed the chapel bell, She moved as in a waking dream,But sometimes by the sapphire lake, Where thro' the reeds, the iris gleam,She leaned, as tho' in that hushed hourShe sought for some forgotten flower.
At times, with summer on the weld, And drumming bees in jasmines blown,She took her basket on her arm And went into the woods alone,Weeping, came back by lane and hill,Her willow basket empty still. . . .
To none she spoke her secret grief Always her sad eyes seemed to seek,The grandad muttered from his chair With words of strange import to speak,He said, "'Tis thus the maiden goes,Who in dark gardens found a rose. . . ."
The moon came up above the town, It silvered spire and fretted roof,And man and maid danced on the grass, And only she remained aloof.A branch cast shadow on the ground,And swift she bent, as though she found
A petal in the darkness flung Of some fair bloom she once had known.Almost her lips curved to a smile, Then, with drooped head, we heard her moan,And saw her, as the widowed stand,With famished eyes and empty hand. . . .
More glad she grew in winter-time, And at her wheel, we heard her sing,For all the flowers were lost in snow. . . . But grief came back with every spring.She seemed again to feel her dearthWhen the first blade pricked thro' the earth. . . .
Her foster brother loved her well, He would have kist her mouth to glows,But lily pale and cold she kept Who in the dark had found a roseThat grows not in a marriage bed—And so he wedded Joan instead. . . .
When fecund earth was greatly green, And birds sang in the dusky wood,And there were rabbits in the copse, And grain grew gold and life was good,At the long close of one rare day,Into the mirk she stole away. . . .
The grandad with his ninety years, Palsied these ten, sat watching her.The sun went down behind the hills, He heard the gleaming insects whirr,He saw bright eve her eyelids closeAnd sobbed . . . . and muttered of a rose.
Perhaps, beyond the bluest peak, In some dark vale, she found her flower,Perhaps her hungry heart was filled— We never saw her from that hour. . . .So long ago—old memories fail!Almost a legend seems the tale!
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The children brought white daisies in, With frills about a yellow face,They brought her broom from stony hills, And violets from a marshy place. . . .But only weeds are these to thoseWho, in dark gardens, found a rose.