The Two Dreams

I WILL that if I say a heavy thingYour tongues forgive me; seeing ye know that springHas flecks and fits of pain to keep her sweet,And walks somewhile with winter-bitten feet.Moreover it sounds often well to letOne string, when ye play music, keep at fretThe whole song through; one petal that is deadConfirms the roses, be they white or red;Dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hearAs the thick noise that breaks mid weeping were;The sick sound aching in a lifted throatTurns to sharp silver of a perfect note;And though the rain falls often, and with rainLate autumn falls on the old red leaves like pain,I deem that God is not disquieted.Also while men are fed with wine and bread,They shall be fed with sorrow at his hand. There grew a rose-garden in Florence landMore fair than many; all red summers throughThe leaves smelt sweet and sharp of rain, and blewSideways with tender wind; and therein fellSweet sound wherewith the green waxed audible,As a bird's will to sing disturbed his throatAnd set the sharp wings forward like a boatPushed through soft water, moving his brown sideSmooth-shapen as a maid's, and shook with prideHis deep warm bosom, till the heavy sun'sSet face of heat stopped all the songs at once.The ways were clean to walk and delicate;And when the windy white of March grew late,Before the trees took heart to face the sunWith ravelled raiment of lean winter on,The roots were thick and hot with hollow grass.