You took the rare blue from my cloudy sky;
You shot the one bird in my silent wood;
You crushed my rose – one rose alone had I .
You have not known. You have not understood.
I would have shown you pictures I have seen
Of unimagined mountains, plains and seas;
I would have made you songs of leafy green,
If you had left me some small ecstasies ;
Now let the one dear field be only field,
That was a garden for the mighty gods,
Take you its corn, I keep its better yield –
The glory that I found within its clods.
The Collected Works of Mary Webb, Jonathan Cape,1929