Classic Poem

Little child, with little hands and feet,
And face much too old;
Above the pavements difficult with heat;
Above the bedlam of the cobbled street;
Above Bought and Sold.

No waterpot of firkins to the brim;
No rose tree to tend;
A sprig of fern, a little leaflet slim,
Out of a fissured teacup helping him
To drink, like a friend.

Yet in thy heart I read thee far away,
In lands overseas;
Thou art a princess reigning in Cathay,
Whom dusky slaves and courtiers obey,
And kings hope to please.

Mayhap but now thou art alone, and free
To roam thy demesne;
Mayhap dost seek the haunt most dear to thee,
The hidden garden by the cypress tree
None other has seen.

Where lies a pond of lilies, in the gloom,
With drops of blue sky;
Where drift pale petals of unspared perfume,
And Juno's peacocks prink and boast and plume,
And winds softly sigh.

Where, as thou comest, fragrant evening lies,
With scarce filled-out sails;
Down steps of rose the drowsy daylight dies;
Behind dark trees Diana mounts the skies,
And wake nightingales.

Where music floats, in ever widening rings,
Soft, from far away;
From cool, white hands that fondle muted strings,
And mingle melody with hearts and things
They alone can say.

But as thou kneelest, breathless, in the shade,
Lovely, with thy hair …
Against thy realm are enemies arrayed;
A burst of discord makes the dream to fade
At once into the air.
. . . . . . . . . . .

O little child, whose world is on the street,
Dirty and defiled,
Go down thy dreams with little hands and feet;
God give thy garden somewhere thou shalt meet,—
Not here … little child.