To E. H. C

Desires,Little determined desires,Gripped by the mould,Moving so hardly amongThe earth, of whose heart they were bred,That is old; it is old,Not gracious to little desires such as these,But apter for work on the bases of trees,Whose branches are hungOverhead,Very mightily, there overhead.

Through the summer they stirred,They strove to the bulbs after May,Until harvest and song of the birdWent together away;And ever till coming of snowsThey worked in the mould, for undaunted were thoseSwift little determined desires, in the earthWithout sign, any day,Ever shaping to marvels of birth,Far away.

And we wentWithout heedOn our way,Never knowing what virtue was spent,Day by day,By those little desires that were gallant to breedSuch beauty as fortitude may.Not once in our mindWas that corner of earth under trees,Very mighty and tall,As we travelled the roads and the seas,And gathered the wage of our kind,And were laggard or trim to the callOf the duties that lengthen the hoursInto seasons that flourish and fall.

And blind,In the womb of the flowers,Unresting they wrought,In the bulbs, in the depth of the year,Buried far from our thought;Till one day, when the thrushes were clearIn their note it was spring--and they know--Unheeding we came into sightOf that corner forgotten, and lo,They had won through the meshes of mould,And treasuries lay in the light,Of ivory, purple, and gold.