The land to the Landlord

THE LAND TO THE LANDLORD

You hug to your soul a handful of dust, And you think the round world your sacred Trust — But the sun shines and the wind blows, And nobody cares and nobody knows.

Oh, the bracken waves and the foxgloves flame, And none of them ever heard your name; Near and dear is the curlew's cry, You are but a stranger passing by.

Though you are king of the rose and the wheat. Not for you, not for you, is the bog-myrtle sweet ; Though you are lord of the long grass, The hemlock bows not her head as you pass.

The poppies would flutter amongst the corn Even if you had never been born; With your will, or without your will, The ragweed can wander over the hill.

Down there in the bog where the plovers call. You are but an outcast after all; Over your head the sky gleams blue. Not a cloud or a star belongs to you ! REPEAT FIRST VERSE — © Eva Gore-Booth/Frank Callery

From the Perilous Light: London Erskine MacDonald — PRINTED BY W. MATE AND SONS, LIMITED BOURNEMOUTH. MCMXV. —  See also her dedication of THE EGYPTIAN PILLAR The soul has its revelations, the heart its Mysteries. —The Empress Josephine — To my Sister Constance de Markievicz, in remembrance of November l0th, 1906, and of some dreams we hold in common.