Classic Poem

I

Scorn is a scourge:
I need the scourge for myself.
Love is a key:
Except it open the one low door,
I must stay in my cell with my scourge.

II

I have fought for my triumph
Bitterly and long,
And I would have fought to the death
For my soul's sake and yours.
But now that it is won —
See, here is my sword:
Take it away — I do not like to look at it.
Let us play you are the conqueror.

III

Out into a green backyard came a woman in a blue apron
Carrying yellow meal in a bright tin pail.
The chickens came running;
And those little hungry sparrows that are my thoughts,
All day teasing and quarrelling,
Settled down on the grass among the plump flock,
Greedy and pleased.

IV

I never knew a farmer who scolded the bluebirds
For thinking the fence-posts were made for them:
And I guess God will not be offended
If my heart builds its nest in His fence-post.