A king had proudly walked within my garden And there were purple paths for him to go, And golden bells, and silver trumpets blowing, And many flaming tapers, row on row . . . When he had gone, I sang away the terror Of loneliness. I sang away the pain. I toiled to keep the garden's old familiar beauty Against the time when he should come again. How could I, as with eagerness and laughter Flinging the gate wide open for my king, Know that a beggar entered, who would ravish My proudest and my rarest blossoming? Yet it is not a sob for that lost beauty That breaks my breath: it is the shame to know That afterward a beggar stumbled dully Along the paths a king was wort to go. |