Poems (Millay)/Blight
Blight
Hard seeds of hate I planted That should by now be grown,—Rough stalks, and from thick stamens A poisonous pollen blown,And odours rank, unbreathable, From dark corollas thrown!
At dawn from my damp garden I shook the chilly dew;The thin boughs locked behind me That sprang to let me through;The blossoms slept,—I sought a place Where nothing lovely grew.
And there, when day was breaking, I knelt and looked around:The light was near, the silence Was palpitant with sound;I drew my hate from out my breast And thrust it in the ground.
Oh, ye so fiercely tended, Ye little seeds of hate! I bent above your growing Early and noon and late,Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,— I cannot rear ye straight!
The sun seeks out my garden, No nook is left in shade,No mist nor mould nor mildew Endures on any blade,Sweet rain slants under every bough: Ye falter, and ye fade.