The Poet took his walking-stick

    Of fine and polished ebony.

    Set in the close-grained wood

    Were quaint devices；

    Patterns in ambers，

    And in the clouded green of jades.

    The top was smooth， yellow ivory，

    And a tassel of tarnished gold

    Hung by a faded cord from a hole

    Pierced in the hard wood，

    Circled with silver.

    For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane.

    His wealth had gone to enrich it，

    His experiences to pattern it，

    His labour to fashion and burnish it.

    To him it was perfect，

    A work of art and a weapon，

    A delight and a defence.

    The Poet took his walking-stick

    And walked abroad.

    Peace be with you， Brother.

    The Poet came to a meadow.

    Sifted through the grass were daisies，

    Open-mouthed， wondering， they gazed at the sun.

    The Poet struck them with his cane.

    The little heads flew off， and they lay

    Dying， open-mouthed and wondering，

    On the hard ground.

    "They are useless. They are not roses，" said the Poet.

    Peace be with you， Brother. Go your ways.

    The Poet came to a stream.

    Purple and blue flags waded in the water；

    In among them hopped the speckled frogs；

    The wind slid through them， rustling.

    The Poet lifted his cane，

    And the iris heads fell into the water.

    They floated away， torn and drowning.

    "Wretched flowers，" said the Poet，

    "They are not roses."

    Peace be with you， Brother. It is your affair.

    The Poet came to a garden.

    Dahlias ripened against a wall，

    Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature，

    And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour

    With the red and gold of its blossoms.

    Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets.

    The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias，

    And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground.

    Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems.

    Red and gold they lay scattered，

    Red and gold， as on a battle field；

    Red and gold， prone and dying.

    "They were not roses，" said the Poet.

    Peace be with you， Brother.

    But behind you is destruction， and waste places.

    The Poet came home at evening，

    And in the candle-light

    He wiped and polished his cane.

    The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers，

    And made the jades undulate like green pools.

    It played along the bright ebony，

    And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory.

    But these things were dead，

    Only the candle-light made them seem to move.

    "It is a pity there were no roses，" said the Poet.