A SONG

What if the rose should bloom,

And the sunset deepen and fade,

If we are penned in the gloom

By close-barred shutters made?

What of the birds and the sun,

And the moon-rise behind the trees,

To the eyes and ears of one

Who neither hears nor sees?

What of the world of love,

Its fragrance, and light, and bloom,

To the soul that cannot move

Out of a loveless room?

Were it better the rose were dead

In a black December frost,

That no more skies were red,

That lovers’ ways were lost?

Ah no! The wood must shrink,

Bar closely as you may,

And between the shutters’ chink

Slips in the sunlight's ray.

So that the prisoner knows

It is June in the world outside,

And his heart is glad for the rose,

Though to him it is denied.

For the love of lovely things

Must quench all bitterness,

And whilst the robin sings

No heart is comfortless.