Edith Nesbit

The Despot

   THE garden mould was damp and chill;
   Winter had had his brutal will
   Since over all the year’s content
   His devastating legions went.

   The Spring’s bright banners came: there woke
   Millions of little growing folk
   Who thrilled to know the winter done,
   Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.

   Not so the elect; reserved, and slow
   To trust a stranger-sun and grow,
   They hesitated, cowered and hid,
   Waiting to see what others did.

   Yet even they, a little, grew,
   Put out prim leaves to day and dew,
   And lifted level formal heads
   In their appointed garden beds.

   The gardener came: he coldly loved
   The flowers that lived as he approved,
   That duly, decorously grew
   As he, the despot, meant them to.

   He saw the wildlings flower more brave
   And bright than any cultured slave;
   Yet, since he had not set them there,
   He hated them for being fair.

   So he uprooted, one by one,
   The free things that had loved the sun,
   The happy, eager, fruitful seeds
   Who had not known that they were weeds.