Classic Poem

The burned and dusty garden said:
“My leaves are echoes, and thy earth
Is packed with footsteps of the dead.

“The strength of spring-time brought to birth
Some needles on the crooked fir,—
A rose, a laurel—little worth.

“Come here, ye dreaming souls that err
Among the immortals of the grave:
My summer is your sepulchre.

“On earth what darker voices rave
Than now this sea-breeze, driving dust
And whirling radiance wave on wave,

“With lulls so fearful thro' the gust
That on the shapeless flower-bed
Like timber splits the yellow crust.

“O thirsty, thirsty are the dead,
Still thirsty, ever unallayed.
Where is no water, bring no bread.”

I then had almost answer made,
When round the path in pleasure drew
Three golden children to the shade.

They stirred the dust with pail and hoe.
Then did the littlest from his fears
Come up and with his eyes of blue

Give me some berries seriously.
And as he turned to his brother, I
Looked after him thro' happy tears.