ix
Ornate array is foofarow:
Make-up on a small girl's cheeks;
Tinsel round the head of Christ,
Or rings on every toe.
Unadorned natural beauty
Illuminates the common world.
Fair is the lily gilt ...
Fair sweet the wild rose.

Such air! There is no pretence:
No posy in a piano vase;
No bouquet breakfast jug arranged
That you might love if wild.
For vain our species seems to be
With all its trump and solemn pride.
You may act the grand seignior -
But roses bloom in spite of time.

So damn all pride! Self-esteem!
Napoleon on a beggar's horse.
Mussolini flying high.
Hitler cross-armed posed.
Too few like Garabaldi, Gandhi,
Descend to sing the small man's song;
Too few with humbled hangdog looks
Stoop to conquer all.

Nay! Who would be in servile chains!
Who would drain their every vein!
Who would kiss the hem of Cain!
Unless they were a saint.

The modest violet shadows the rose:-
With bashful blush it finds its fame
In the shade beneath an elm
Where timorous lovers play.
But oh beware! Also there
The pansy in self-love — in bloom!
Conceit and swollen cockiness
With the itch to please some fools.