Midas watched the golden crust <br />That formed over his steaming sores, <br />Hugged his agues, loved his lust, <br />But damned to hell the out-of-doors <br /> <br />Where blazing motes of sun impaled <br />The serrid roses, metal-bright. <br />"Those famous flowers," Midas wailed, <br />"Have scorched my retina with light." <br /> <br />This gift, he'd thought, would gild his joys, <br />Silt up the waters of his grief; <br />His lawns a wilderness of noise, <br />The heavy clang of leaf on leaf. <br /> <br />Within, the golden cup is good <br />To lift, to sip the yellow mead. <br />Outside, in summer's rage, the rude <br />Gold thorn has made his fingers bleed. <br /> <br />"I strolled my halls in golden shift, <br />As ruddy as a lion s meat. <br />Then I rushed out to share my gift, <br />And golden stubble cut my feet." <br /> <br />Dazzled with wounds, he limped away <br />To climb into his golden bed, <br />Roses, roses can betray. <br />"Nature is evil," Midas said<br /><br />Carolyn Kizer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ungrateful-garden/
