The Two Dreams

I WILL that if I say a heavy thing

Your tongues forgive me; seeing ye know that spring

Has flecks and fits of pain to keep her sweet,

And walks somewhile with winter-bitten feet.

Moreover it sounds often well to let

One string, when ye play music, keep at fret

The whole song through; one petal that is dead

Confirms the roses, be they white or red;

Dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hear

As the thick noise that breaks mid weeping were;

The sick sound aching in a lifted throat

Turns to sharp silver of a perfect note;

And though the rain falls often, and with rain

Late autumn falls on the old red leaves like pain,

I deem that God is not disquieted.

Also while men are fed with wine and bread,

They shall be fed with sorrow at his hand.

There grew a rose-garden in Florence land

More fair than many; all red summers through

The leaves smelt sweet and sharp of rain, and blew

Sideways with tender wind; and therein fell

Sweet sound wherewith the green waxed audible,

As a bird¿s will to sing disturbed his throat

And set the sharp wings forward like a boat

Pushed through soft water, moving his brown side

Smooth-shapen as a maid¿s, and shook with pride

His deep warm bosom, till the heavy sun¿s

Set face of heat stopped all the songs at once.

The ways were clean to walk and delicate;

And when the windy white of March grew late,

Before the trees took heart to face the sun

With ravelled raiment of lean winter on,

The roots were thick and hot with hollow grass.