Said the thriving man to the tinker’s wife,
‘Spell me the secret of your happy life.’
‘I could not bide it, I was never made
to couch in bracken with the birch for shade.’
‘And hills I love not, their ironic smile
seems scornful of the things I hold worthwhile.’
‘Nor am I ravished of the woodland note
that breaks in tumult from the merle’s apt throat..’
‘Yet you love them all. But why? What’s the art,
that turns rose-petal into quiet of heart?’
‘Ah, easy to answer,’ she softly said.
‘I’m richer than you-that’s your riddle read.’
‘Have you heard fir-music? Or the whisp’ring tales
that the tide brings in when the white moon pales?’
‘Or glimpsed the slim grace of the tall June grass
bowing demurely to the winds that pass?’
‘Or strayed through a glen where wild violet grew
and thought, “Well, heaven will be nothing new?”
‘So, I envy none – if I’m poor I’m free
to the feast Love spreads for the likes o’ me.’
by Alistair Maclean