The Spike: or, Victoria College Review, September 1923

Sonnet

Sonnet

If every wind that shakes our orchard's gold
Should tremble for the trees its wrenches bare;
If spring should fear the winter's nipping hold
And spread no self-delighting blossoms there;
If hope should doubt, or fancy lay aside
Her splendid visions and go meanly garbed,
Lest through her air-built landscapes there should ride
Some plague of darkness with confusion barbed.
Then might the poet weigh his thronging words,
And garner some against the famine years,
Or social saviours ban our thoughtless herds,
Dreading the Tree and its prophetic jeers.
Yes, life itself might hourly wait for death,
And fairest nosegays blow the rankest breath.

M.E.H.