Poem

The Countryside

The countryside — a garden rich in yield,A canvas for the arts, no veil concealed;

God lodged therein the wonders of His art,And graced it with the symbol of the heart;

The earth and pure air, both in union blessed,Life's treasure and the eye's most sweet behest;

The Nile, abundant growth and all its storeBestow on barren souls the Creator's lore;

A world of wondrous art embodied stood,Creation willed it thus without a hood;

Birds soar through space, melodious, set free,The lover communing with bird and tree;

The branch the breeze caresses — as though it kissedThe ether, songster and the quince well-nigh missed;

Maidens are scattered through the fields like flowersOf gardens tempting travellers for hours;

I ran toward the field with eager pace,As though a secret of the heart I'd trace;

I glimpsed a country lad intoning grief,Like caged nightingale beyond belief;

I drew near and said: Forbear, O youth,What delicacies grow here, tell the truth;

Have you aught here that one might buy and eat?For I would purchase what your hand would meet;

The wandering voice stirred, restless, and replied:Mock not our hidden misery and pride;

And lo, the shadow of distress upon his browDrew answer like a spark of fire's glow;

Despite my fear he murmured, bitter, low,Yet can mere anger ease the naked poor's woe?

Then he turned from me and vanished, humming still —Alas for me, fate's cruelty and ill!

I thought perhaps he deemed my jest a guide,I thought perhaps he deemed hypocrisy my pride;

I ran behind him in my anxious haste,That I might soften cruel thoughts' sharp taste;

I searched the fields — perchance I'd find the ladAnd offer him a home, no longer sad;

By fields and hills I sought him, far and near,Along the shores and in the caverns drear;

Did he seek stars, pursuing lofty fame,Or deem his lot sufficient, day's small claim?

Or deem his life exalted, spirit free,Emulating noble souls' dignity?

The world grants not its treasure's better partExcept to minds of falsehood, wicked heart;

I marvel at our age's tyrants' reign —They prosper whilst the pure endure pain;

They gained whate'er their souls desired and more,As though their fortune were the buyer's store;

As though chastity's lot in this low sphereWere never touched by righteous souls sincere;

O countryside of Egypt, O her men,Have patience — patience crowns the free again.

Poetic Heartbeats