Welsh Journals

TO ROBERT OWEN I WALK under the winter tree, It scatters heavy drops on me, I lift my left hand and look, It is the blood of the folk. I turn, and the tree turns and cries, I have wept out my eyes. I feel the burning of that blood Penetrate my sense of good; And where the weal shows on my hand The figure of Robert Owen stands. I did mine, he says, you Do what you can do. I walk near the summer sun, Among the plethora of plenty, Calcutta roses suffocating; I see the many have none, I see two rise on twenty, I know the way they suffer. In the plenitude of rot, Like pearl and like spirit, I again recognize his spirit Rising like a whirlwind at The summer tree that has too much, And blows it on the winter branch. GEORGE BARKER.