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.