When flowers of June are in their prime
And hollyhocks and roses climb,
Rival the sky,
And sunflowers tall
Stand by the wall,
Then out of heaven there breathes a gusty sigh
As if the gods were envious of such majesty
Beyond our due.
Then gather winds in mirthless might,
And massing clouds obscure the light;
With rods of rain
Each vaunting bloom
Is stricken low;
And tempests blow
To wreak destruction, havoc, mortal doom,
As if the gods, not satisfied, were making room
To build again.
Despite the gardener’s zealous care
His charges are beyond repair.
His treasure store
Is scattered wide;
His wealth is lost.
Thus in the moment of his bounding pride
The greatest triumph is by nature’s gods denied
To teach him more.
Let not the soul with its own worth
Think it deserves to have the earth;
It does not earn
Its right to live;
It is judged by
And those it may of all its talents give,
Cannot succeed unless the gods are operative,
E’en though they spurn !
Weekly Times 14.7.61