Summerhouse Thoughts of a Millionaire

BRISKLY he walks with rigid cheerfulness,
Past bowing sycophants, and gardeners bending
(Dutifully eager to unwanted task),
The fawning hands of strange acquaintances,
The favored ones who in his pleasure bask;
Oh, to leave them shut in the florid richness
Of that tame loathèd garden, duly set —
The thyroid blooms, the tabulated trees,
Glass houses boring and unnecessary, yet
Bought with his gold, sown, trained, and pruned,
Watered and artificially fed by it!
Even the birds, saucy or shy, untroubled
Truly by his wealth, but wearing the look
Of pensioners, secure in knowledge
Of plenteous crumb-bounty daily sent
And crystal streams, imported, and stone baths
Exquisitely awaiting patronage.
His thoughts find fresh wild acres far from men —
Birds, beasts, and flowers are there by primal right,
Taking their chance, and he would take his too
And drink the tonic of the wilderness
Here in this preserved, exclusive spot
The very clouds seem marbled to a taste
Not his, for which he paid! How good
(Leaving the yacht and Raeburns high and dry)
To walk white roads where cool dark shadows lie,
And silvery ones, unwinding through the rain,
Passing the time of day unknown and free
With all the intriguing caravanserai;
Then find at evening time a fragrant lane,
Still as forgotten pain, and leading to
A barn with friendly bed of stars and hay,
And in a rose-washed dawn, bare dimpling hills
Where nymphs might dance, and shepherds pipe
For him, perchance! Well, well, perhaps — some day!