The Point of View / Edith Nesbit

I

There was never winter, summer only: roses,

Pink and white and red,

Shining down the warm rich garden closes;

Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow,

Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette,

Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread;

Good gold sun that kissed me when we met,

Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow.

In the hay-field, scented, grey,

Loving life and love, I lay;

By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep;

Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream.

II

Summer never was, was always winter only;

Cold and ice and frost

Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely,

In a world of strangers, in the welter

Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet,

Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost

In a bitter unfamiliar street,

I found a doorway, crouched there for just shelter,

Crouched and fought in vain for breath,

Cursed the cold and wished for death;

Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep;

Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream.

The Point of View: II.

I

In the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears,

Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way;

Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:

"It is night, it is night, it has never been day;

Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight;

It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night.

Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer,

For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands."

II

Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie

In the arms of despair that is masked as delight,

You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear:

"It is day, it is day, it has never been night!

Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves;

It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves,

Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer

Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands."