THE PRESENT
I HAVE tossed my bonnet over the windmill and sent you roses, I have kicked the traces over with peaches spilled
From a thousand English red-walled, sun-warmed gardens, And wrapped them in grass from a field be-daffodilled. I have spattered my present with crystallised winter snow, And captured a rainbow to make it a ribbon bow.
I have shaken the seasons together in a gardening basket, Jumbling autumn and summer with winter and spring ; I have snatched at catches of song from swallow and throstle, And fastened them here in a bunch, with words for string. I have burnt my boats and my bridges with tawny tongues Of bitter-scented autumnal chrysanthemums.
I have snapped my fingers at limping outworn phrases, Thrown lexicographic discretion to the wind. I've taken the things I want from their stablished places, And packed them into a present, colour-crowned. And seizing a leaf to scribble my greetings on, I gather them up—and cross my Rubicon.
ROSEMARY C. COBHAM.
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