Poems (Howard)/Pomona's Gifts

by Hattie Howard

Pomona's Gifts.

To denizens of dusty streets
 That circumscribe their pent abodes,
 By chance who traverse rural roads,
The charming sight itself repeats,
Again and oft, of luscious sweets
Uppiled in verdant, cool retreats.

Inviting clusters load the vine,
 Whose flavor hid in spheric shapes
 Belies the tale of "Sour Grapes";
For taste of which so saccharine,
The reason why may one divine
The philosophic fox should pine.

O angels! it is hard to pray
 "Into temptation lead us not"!
 Who every step are nearer brought
Where plenty maketh glad the way,
As oases the desert gray,
Or beacon lights the harbor bay.

And hard to interdict the hand
 From reaching through our neighbor's fence—
 Forgive the covetous intents!—
Where monarchs of the orchard stand,
And scatter treasures as the sand
Is strewn alone; the ocean strand.

Would "Prohibition's" strict decree
 Forbid that one delicious draught,
 The nectar that our fathers quaffed,
Our lips should moisten—just to see,
In its bouquet and purity,
Its honest maker's guaranty?

Pomona! goddess said to be
 To whom the pagan tribes of old,
 At altar shrines adorned with gold,
With bodies prone or bended knee,
Confessed thy generosity,
And orisons poured out as free!

Is it thy hand, subordinate
 To an unchanging, loving will,
 That lavishly such wealth doth spill
Of fruitage ripe in autumn late,
Beyond the city's outer gate,
Whore lanes and highways deviate?

Ah, no; for heathen evermore
 Imagine vain and foolish things—
 As beings strange with airy wings
In fair Elysium that soar
And hold their sway o'er sea and shore—
The deities of mythic lore.

But we, intelligent, endued
 With higher wisdom, reverence
 The God who is Beneficence;
And for His gifts each year renewed
Attune our songs in gratitude,
And praise the Giver of all good.