when I was alone, and I longed till the daylight came; And down the stairs I stole, and there was our housekeeping dame (No mother of me, the foundling) kindling the fire betimes Ere the haymaking folk went forth to the meadows down by the limes; All things I saw at a glance; the quickening fire-tongues leapt Through the crackling heap of sticks, and the sweet smoke up from it crept, And close to the very hearth the low sun flooded the floor, And the cat and her kittens played in the sun by the open door.  The garden was fair in the morning, and there in the road he stood Beyond the crimson daisies and the bush of southernwood.  Then side by side together through the grey-walled place we went, And O the fear departed, and the rest and sweet content!

Son, sorrow and wisdom he taught me,
and sore I grieved and learned
As we twain grew into one;
and the heart within me burned
With the very hopes of his heart. 
Ah, son, it is piteous,
But never again in my life
shall I dare to speak to thee thus;
So may these lonely words
about thee creep and cling,
These words of the lonely night
in the days of our wayfaring. 
Many a child of woman
to-night is born in the town,
The desert of folly and wrong;
and of what and whence are they grown? 
Many and many an one
of wont and use is born;
For a husband is taken to bed
as a hat or a ribbon is worn. 
Prudence begets her thousands;
“good is a housekeeper’s life,
So shall I sell my body
that I may be matron and wife.” 
“And I shall endure foul wedlock
and bear the children of need.” 
Some are there born of hate,
many the children of greed. 
“I, I too can be wedded,
though thou my love hast got.” 
“I am fair and hard of heart,
and riches shall be my lot.” 
And all these are the good and the happy,
on whom the world dawns fair. 
O son, when wilt thou learn
of those that are born of despair,
As the fabled mud of the Nile
that quickens under the sun
With a growth of creeping things,
half dead when just begun? 
E’en such is the care of Nature
that man should never die,
Though she breed of the fools of the earth,
and the dregs of the city sty.

But thou, O son, O son, of very love wert born, When our hope fulfilled bred hope, and fear was a folly outworn.  On the eve of the toil and the battle all sorrow and grief we weighed, We hoped and we were not ashamed, we knew and we were not afraid.

Now waneth the night and the moon; ah, son, it is piteous That never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee thus.  But sure from the wise and the simple shall the mighty come to birth; And fair were my fate, beloved, if I be yet on the earth When the world is awaken at last, and from mouth to mouth they tell Of thy love and thy deeds and thy valour, and thy hope that nought can quell.

THUNDER IN THE GARDEN