Ina Donna Coolbrith

Withheld

THEREIN is sunlight, and sweet sound:
Cool flow of waters, musical;
Soft stir of insect-wings, and fall
Of blossom-snow upon the ground.

The birds flit in and out the trees,
Their bright, sweet throats strained full with song.
The flower-beds, the summer long,
Are black and murmurous with bees.

Th' unrippled leaves hang faint with dew
In hushes of the breezeless morn:
At eventide the stars, new born,
And the white moonlight, glimmer through.

Therein are all glad things whereof
Life holdeth need through changing years;
Therein sweet rest, sweet end of tears;
Therein sweet labors, born of love.

This is my heritage, mine own,
That alien hands from me withhold.
From barréd windows, dark and cold,
I view, with heart that maketh moan.

They fetter feet and hands; they give
Me bitter, thankless tasks to do;
And, cruel wise, still feed anew
My one small hope, that I may live.

And, that no single pang I miss,
Lo! this one little window - space
Is left, where through my eyes may trace
How sweeter than all sweet it is!