THE VIRGIN AND THE SCALES

This is a public park; You may not pick the flowers, Or loiter after hours, Or kiss too deep in the dark. Yet here is green, and sweet Forgetfulness of the street; Deep walks of chestnut and lime Where the old may pass away time, Pleasant picnicing places For children with shabby faces, Lawns blowing in the sun Where dogs may roll and run, And the patient grass For lover and lass. Is this then not enough? No, not enough for one I met there. Who? A nun. (And yet, God knows, so old, So battered with untold Heavenly housewifery, So vowed to poverty, You would not think to find Ambition in her mind.) In wintry woollen stuff Of abstinence was she dressed, And winter was on her breast; But midsummer’s most complete Honey-coloured, honey-sweet Plenteousness was her plunder, Standing the lime-tree under. No housewife shelling peas, No Saint upon her knees Telling God’s praises over, Slip-finger, nor bees in clover, Nor girl-child gathering Cowslips in the spring Showed with more innocence Delight in diligence Than she, cramming her bag With golden handfuls of swag. Love knit my heart to her: I approached; but at the stir Of footfall she glanced round, Loosed her rich branch, and frowned With such an air of doubt As children show found out In fault, till seeing that I Smiled, she in turn looked sly And faster than before Plucked on. Said I: ‘Here’s more Than you can lessen, though you Should gather the whole day through For your lime-blossom tea.’ ‘It is God’s gift,’ said she, ‘And pleasant for the sick. It grows so clean and thick ’Twere shame to let it waste. Aye, gathered it should be. But I must work in haste Lest the Keeper come along And tell me I do wrong.’ I looked up overhead And saw the lime-tree spread Above us like a tent; Like a green and golden pavilion Of some Arabian Night, Murmuring as with consent, And gleaming as though alight With a million, with a million Loops and tassels of scent. I thought then: Who could grudge Blooms to this holy drudge, Or stay her wrinkled, deft Old hands from their kind theft? She thief, lawbreaker? She? As well accuse the tree, That day-long with sweet skill Steals sap, steals chlorophyl; That from earth, from dew, from air Thieves that it may be fair And show its works to men, Who beholding it then May glorify their Father In heaven. No, but look farther. I touch not blossom nor leaf, And I, I am the Thief! Thief so cunning and fell That I am Keeper as well. Good cause had she to frown At my shadow blackening down; For every joy I take Becomes an iron grate, And my innocent delights Plant rows of iron spikes; Worst, self-denying, this trick Of integrity—not to pick Blossom, bruise leaf, destroy Aught from the common joy— Binds in an iron band My heart and prompts my hand, Now lifted up to bless In scrupulous emptiness, To write these words of hate Thou shalt not on every gate. Yet here is solace, and sweet Redemption from the street; A pause, a look of pity For the begrimed city, Green almsgiving, a lake Of green where men may slake Parched senses, wash off care. Ah, if it only were Not so precious, so deadly dear, So dearly defrayed a delight That whosoever comes here Must come as Thief outright, Or cloaking his envious mind With love of humankind, And with caution and mistrust Walking among the just Grow Thief so cunning and fell That perforce he’s Keeper as well. Poor drudge, you had reason to start, When with love in my heart I approached you, as though you saw In me the offended law. Truly, to-day I must be Offended because of thee. For every blossom you pick Must wound me to the quick, And by that bag you’ve crammed With mercies I am damned; Worst, worst, your innocence, Your happy, happy love, Your hand, so hand in glove With the tree’s consenting, Is a sword to drive me hence, Lamenting, lamenting; Is a flame brandished to fright Me from a forfeited delight, Repenting, repenting; Is a key in the unrelenting Hand of the uncreate, Locking the garden gate. O why must my spirit pine For a few handfuls of lime Plucked by a poor old nun, Whose cares are all in one Concern so summed up and shriven That were I to tell her but half Of the coil through which she’s driven My thoughts, she must either laugh As a nurse laughs at a child, Or with a sigh, maybe a frown For one so devil-wiled, Brush all my vain-wit down? And yet I linger, I delay, Hankering, as though some clue She had hold of, answer knew. As though, should I say: ‘No, dear, you may not pick Lime-blossom for the sick; For know you not, since the Fall Not one tree, but all, all Must bear forbidden fruit, And are poisoned at the root By man’s repentant tears?’— She might reply: ‘Yet here’s Good warrant for what I do. When he was walking through The harvest he plucked the ears Of corn and shared them among Those with him, for they were an hungered, and so was he. Thus his disciples he taught How to steal as they ought, In joy and peace of heart; Thus he took the sinner’s part; So much to thieves a friend That he had them with him till the end; Thus, thus, he would set us free. But till everyone believes In him we must all be thieves.’