WE wandered down the meadow way-- <br />The path beside the hedge is shady,-- <br />You did not see the silver may, <br />You talked of Art, my sweet blind Lady. <br /> <br /> <br />You talked of values and of tone, <br />Of square touch and New English crazes; <br />Could you not see we were alone, <br />Where God's hand paints the world with daisies? <br /> <br /> <br />You spoke of Paris and of Rome <br />And in the hedgerow's thorny shadows <br />A white-throat sang a song of home, <br />Of English lanes and English meadows. <br /> <br /> <br />You talked about the aims of Art <br />And how all Art must needs be moral; <br />I heard you with a sinking heart <br />And watched the waving crimson sorrel. <br /> <br /> <br />For when I found you had not heard <br />The song--nor seen the dewy clover, <br />I cared no more to find the word <br />Should make you hear and see a lover!<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rejected-21/
