Rejected

WE wandered down the meadow way-- The path beside the hedge is shady,-- You did not see the silver may, You talked of Art, my sweet blind Lady. You talked of values and of tone, Of square touch and New English crazes; Could you not see we were alone, Where God's hand paints the world with daisies? You spoke of Paris and of Rome And in the hedgerow's thorny shadows A white-throat sang a song of home, Of English lanes and English meadows. You talked about the aims of Art And how all Art must needs be moral; I heard you with a sinking heart And watched the waving crimson sorrel. For when I found you had not heard The song--nor seen the dewy clover, I cared no more to find the word Should make you hear and see a lover!