The Despot

The garden mould was damp and chill,

    Winter had had his brutal will

    Since over all the year's content

    His devastating legions went.

    Then Spring's bright banners came: there woke

    Millions of little growing folk

    Who thrilled to know the winter done,

    Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.

    Not so the elect; reserved, and slow

   To trust a stranger-sun and grow,

   They hesitated, cowered and hid

   Waiting to see what others did.

   Yet even they, a little, grew,

   Put out prim leaves to day and dew,

   And lifted level formal heads

   In their appointed garden beds.

   The gardener came: he coldly loved

   The flowers that lived as he approved,

   That duly, decorously grew

   As he, the despot, meant them to.

   He saw the wildlings flower more brave

   And bright than any cultured slave;

   Yet, since he had not set them there,

   He hated them for being fair.

   So he uprooted, one by one

   The free things that had loved the sun,

   The happy, eager, fruitful seeds

   That had not known that they were weeds.