This is a public park;
You may not pick the flowers,
Or loiter after hours,
Or kiss too deep in the dark.
Yet here is green, and sweet
Forgetfulness of the street;
Deep walks of chestnut and lime
Where the old may pass away time,
Pleasant picnicing places
For children with shabby faces,
Lawns blowing in the sun
Where dogs may roll and run,
And the patient grass
For lover and lass.
Is this then not enough?
No, not enough for one
I met there.
Who?
A nun.
(And yet, God knows, so old,
So battered with untold
Heavenly housewifery,
So vowed to poverty,
You would not think to find
Ambition in her mind.)
In wintry woollen stuff
Of abstinence was she dressed,
And winter was on her breast;
But midsummer’s most complete
Honey-coloured, honey-sweet
Plenteousness was her plunder,
Standing the lime-tree under.
No housewife shelling peas,
No Saint upon her knees
Telling God’s praises over,
Slip-finger, nor bees in clover,
Nor girl-child gathering
Cowslips in the spring
Showed with more innocence
Delight in diligence
Than she, cramming her bag
With golden handfuls of swag.
Love knit my heart to her:
I approached; but at the stir
Of footfall she glanced round,
Loosed her rich branch, and frowned
With such an air of doubt
As children show found out
In fault, till seeing that I
Smiled, she in turn looked sly
And faster than before
Plucked on. Said I: ‘Here’s more
Than you can lessen, though you
Should gather the whole day through
For your lime-blossom tea.’
‘It is God’s gift,’ said she,
‘And pleasant for the sick.
It grows so clean and thick
’Twere shame to let it waste.
Aye, gathered it _should_ be.
But I must work in haste
Lest the Keeper come along
And tell me I do wrong.’
I looked up overhead
And saw the lime-tree spread
Above us like a tent;
Like a green and golden pavilion
Of some Arabian Night,
Murmuring as with consent,
And gleaming as though alight
With a million, with a million
Loops and tassels of scent.
I thought then: Who could grudge
Blooms to this holy drudge,
Or stay her wrinkled, deft
Old hands from their kind theft?
She thief, lawbreaker? She?
As well accuse the tree,
That day-long with sweet skill
Steals sap, steals chlorophyl;
That from earth, from dew, from air
Thieves that it may be fair
And show its works to men,
Who beholding it then
May glorify their Father
In heaven.
No, but look farther.
I touch not blossom nor leaf,
And I, I am the Thief!
Thief so cunning and fell
That I am Keeper as well.
Good cause had she to frown
At my shadow blackening down;
For every joy I take
Becomes an iron grate,
And my innocent delights
Plant rows of iron spikes;
Worst, self-denying, this trick
Of integrity--not to pick
Blossom, bruise leaf, destroy
Aught from the common joy--
Binds in an iron band
My heart and prompts my hand,
Now lifted up to bless
In scrupulous emptiness,
To write these words of hate
+Thou shalt not+ on every gate.
Yet here is solace, and sweet
Redemption from the street;
A pause, a look of pity
For the begrimed city,
Green almsgiving, a lake
Of green where men may slake
Parched senses, wash off care.
Ah, if it only were
Not so precious, so deadly dear,
So dearly defrayed a delight
That whosoever comes here
Must come as Thief outright,
Or cloaking his envious mind
With love of humankind,
And with caution and mistrust
Walking among the just
Grow Thief so cunning and fell
That perforce he’s Keeper as well.
Poor drudge, you had reason to start,
When with love in my heart
I approached you, as though you saw
In me the offended law.
Truly, to-day I must be
Offended because of thee.
For every blossom you pick
Must wound me to the quick,
And by that bag you’ve crammed
With mercies I am damned;
Worst, worst, your innocence,
Your happy, happy love,
Your hand, so hand in glove
With the tree’s consenting,
Is a sword to drive me hence,
Lamenting, lamenting;
Is a flame brandished to fright
Me from a forfeited delight,
Repenting, repenting;
Is a key in the unrelenting
Hand of the uncreate,
Locking the garden gate.
O why must my spirit pine
For a few handfuls of lime
Plucked by a poor old nun,
Whose cares are all in one
Concern so summed up and shriven
That were I to tell her but half
Of the coil through which she’s driven
My thoughts, she must either laugh
As a nurse laughs at a child,
Or with a sigh, maybe a frown
For one so devil-wiled,
Brush all my vain-wit down?
And yet I linger, I delay,
Hankering, as though some clue
She had hold of, answer knew.
As though, should I say:
‘No, dear, you may not pick
Lime-blossom for the sick;
For know you not, since the Fall
Not one tree, but all, all
Must bear forbidden fruit,
And are poisoned at the root
By man’s repentant tears?’--
She might reply: ‘Yet here’s
Good warrant for what I do.
When he was walking through
The harvest he plucked the ears
Of corn and shared them among
Those with him, for they were an hungered, and so was he.
Thus his disciples he taught
How to steal as they ought,
In joy and peace of heart;
Thus he took the sinner’s part;
So much to thieves a friend
That he had them with him till the end;
Thus, thus, he would set us free.
But till everyone believes
In him we must all be thieves.’