TO ONE IN A GARDEN by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

IF I were other than, alas, I am,
A soul in strife, whom banded foemen vex,
If toil were folly and good deeds a sham,
And hydra wrong had shed its serpent necks,
And life's dark problems could no more perplex,
How sweet it were, forgotten of all blame,
In that far garden which your summer decks
To dream with you that grief was but a name.
—Ay, dream! For waking which of us were wise
To spell grief's epitaph? Some tears must be
Even in the herald hour of your sunrise.
And in the night? Ah, child, what misery,
Think you, awaits us when life's flood-gates strain
To the full deluge of the descending rain?

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