Here at our little back-garden I waste most my days,

Amongst the sweetness of fragrant gardenias and violets,

Where songbirds, earning fruits for their songs, warble forth sweet duets;

As heavy hearts for ease most pine for sweetest lays.

Wine to the embittered lips is at the sweetest,

And comfort to the sagged soul surmounts bliss;

And so little things are high in my mind, and to heavens kiss –

Like sylvan palm-trees in our old men’s forests.

With lusty youths I do not rise at wink of dawn,

To plant or to reap in the farms, burdened with barns of thought;

For, know, sheer weight of some simple hoe to the scale of my mind brought,

Weight adding to weight, like large boughs of palm-trees must hang me down!

To my parents old, to friends, and to me is this mind burden;

Yet from those paths to your heart I never’d return, once trodden!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on May 22, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry

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