The hollyhocks are red and pink
Worlds in which the bees wander:
They radiate their colours under
My window, but I do not think
Of them the way I should:
By growing where they are, they reach
A final good.
The chattering birds along the eaves
Speak in a mode unlike my own:
Why must their always happy tone
Contrast with mine, which too much grieves
Over itself and those
Things which I have no power to change,
While summer goes?
This gentle cat’s resposeful face,
Unmarred by sufferings meekly borne,
Is beautiful and makes me mourn
My own much troubled want of grace:
Her uncomplaining voice
Welcomes the merest look of love,
Pleased to rejoice.
Flowers and birds, my cat, I see,
All here about me as I write:
Red and pink and black and white,
Each with its own identity,
All are fulfilled, at peace,
And with this poem, by being, bring
My own release.