To the World

You took the rare blue from my cloudy sky; You shot the one bird in my silent wood;

You crushed my rose — one rose alone had I. You have not known. You have not understood.

I would have shown you pictures I have seen Of unimagined mountains, plains and seas;

I would have made you songs of leafy green, If you had left me some small ecstasies.

Now let the one dear field be only field, That was a garden for the mighty gods. Take you its corn. I keep its better yield — The glory that I found within its clods.