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Edith Nesbit - The Despot
Work rating: Low

The garden mould was damp and chill,
     Winter had had his brutal will
     Since over all the year`s content
     His devastating legions went. 
     Then Spring`s bright banners came: there woke
     Millions of little growing folk
     Who thrilled to know the winter done,
     Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun. 
     Not so the elect; reserved, and slow
    To trust a stranger-sun and grow,
    They hesitated, cowered and hid
    Waiting to see what others did. 
    Yet even they, a little, grew,
    Put out prim leaves to day and dew,
    And lifted level formal heads
    In their appointed garden beds. 
    The gardener came: he coldly loved
    The flowers that lived as he approved,
    That duly, decorously grew
    As he, the despot, meant them to. 
    He saw the wildlings flower more brave
    And bright than any cultured slave;
    Yet, since he had not set them there,
    He hated them for being fair. 
    So he uprooted, one by one
    The free things that had loved the sun,
    The happy, eager, fruitful seeds
    That had not known that they were weeds.
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