NOSTALGIA 
THE COMPLAINT OF A CATTLEYA 
I 
Torn incontinently from my harbourage 
High on a tree which through the centuries 
Has raised a noble head ’midst its primeval brethren— 
Thrown, numbed and bruised, in a fuggy box— 
Thence in a dark and noisome hold, 
Transported o’er the uncertain waves 
Until I came at last to rest, fatigued, half-starved and “‘all-alone,” 
*Midst some four hundred and four score 
Sad exiled plants—who stood in serried ranks 
On benches in a heated house; 
Or hung, like felons, from a beam 
Athwart the glassy roof. 
And here for five long years ’ve dwelt. 
II 
Our lord and master is a gentle soul 
Who loves and tends his slaves with learned care— 
Whose greatest joy it is to find 
Buds on a plant that ne’er has bloomed before— 
Whose love is catholic, nor scorns the meanest flower 
Which graces for a while the confines of his bower. 
Each plant is scanned with careful eye 
Lest pest or pestilence assail; 
Or lest as peradventure may behap 
The unwonted routine of the gaol 
May cause its soul to flag or strength to fail. 
Ill 
In durance there’s a regimen that numbs 
The lifespring of the captive—be he man or animal or plant: 
Though ’tis designed, by minds that do not understand, 
To keep together tortured frame and soul 
Which, for their eternal peace, fain would be separate. 
IV 
In such a case live we, sad captive plants that erstwhile lived afree— 
’Tis all meant for the best. In wise way ’tis decreed 
That we shall have such warmth at noon, and such at midnight’s hour; 
The living sun no longer is the arbiter but some cold thermostat 
That works upon a formula of Fahrenheit or Centigrade. 
371 
