Therein is sunlight, and sweet sound: <br /> Cool flow of waters, musical, <br /> Soft stir of insect-wings, and fall <br />Of blossom-snow upon the ground. <br /> <br />The birds flit in and out the trees, <br /> Their bright, sweet throats strained full with songs. <br /> The flower-beds, the summer long, <br />Are black and murmurous with bees. <br /> <br />Th’ unrippled leaves hang faint with dew <br /> In hushes of the breezeless morn. <br /> At eventide the stars, new born, <br />And the white moonlight, glimmer through. <br /> <br />Therein are all glad things whereof <br /> Life holdeth need through changing years; <br /> Therin sweet rest, sweet end of tears; <br />Therin sweet labors, born of love. <br /> <br />This is my heritage, mine own, <br /> That alien hands from me withhold. <br /> From barred windows, dark and cold, <br />I view; with heart that maketh moan. <br /> <br />They fetter feet and hands; they give <br /> Me bitter, thankless tasks to do; <br /> And, cruel wise, still feed anew <br />My one small hope, that I may live. <br /> <br />And, that no single pang I miss, <br /> Lo! this one little window-space <br /> Is left, where through my eyes may trace <br />How sweeter than all sweet it is!<br /><br />Ina D. Coolbrith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/withheld/
