Withheld Poem by Ina D. Coolbrith

Therein is sunlight, and sweet sound:
Cool flow of waters, musical,
Soft stir of insect-wings, and fall
Of blossom-snow upon the ground.

The birds flit in and out the trees,
Their bright, sweet throats strained full with songs.
The flower-beds, the summer long,
Are black and murmurous with bees.

Th’ unrippled leaves hang faint with dew
In hushes of the breezeless morn.
At eventide the stars, new born,
And the white moonlight, glimmer through.

Therein are all glad things whereof
Life holdeth need through changing years;
Therin sweet rest, sweet end of tears;
Therin sweet labors, born of love.

This is my heritage, mine own,
That alien hands from me withhold.
From barred windows, dark and cold,
I view; with heart that maketh moan.

They fetter feet and hands; they give
Me bitter, thankless tasks to do;
And, cruel wise, still feed anew
My one small hope, that I may live.

And, that no single pang I miss,
Lo! this one little window-space
Is left, where through my eyes may trace
How sweeter than all sweet it is!