Page:Poems, Meynell, 1921.djvu/64

To any Poet Wait, and many a secret nest,

Many a hoarded winter-store

Will be hidden on thy breast.

Things thou longest for

Will not fear or shun thee more.

Thou shalt intimately lie

In the roots of flowers that thrust

Upwards from thee to the sky,

With no more distrust,

When they blossom from thy dust.

Silent labours of the rain

Shall be near thee, reconciled;

Little lives of leaves and grain,

All things shy and wild,

Tell thee secrets, quiet child.

Earth, set free from thy fair fancies

And the art thou shalt resign,

Will bring forth her rue and pansies

Unto more divine

Thoughts than any thoughts of thine.

Nought will fear thee, humbled creature.

There will lie thy mortal burden

Pressed unto the heart of Nature,

Songless in a garden,

With a long embrace of pardon.

56