  Desires, Little determined desires, Gripped by the mould, Moving so hardly among The 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 hung Overhead, Very mightily, there overhead. Through the summer they stirred, They strove to the bulbs after May, Until harvest and song of the bird Went together away; And ever till coming of snows They worked in the mould, for undaunted were those Swift little determined desires, in the earth Without sign, any day, Ever shaping to marvels of birth, Far away. And we went Without heed Never knowing what virtue was spent, Day by day, By those little desires that were gallant to breed Such beauty as fortitude may. Not once in our mind Was 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 call Of the duties that lengthen the hours Into 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 clear In their note it was spring—and they know— Unheeding we came into sight Of that corner forgotten, and lo, They had won through the meshes of mould, And treasuries lay in the light, Of ivory, purple, and gold. |
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