Almost happy now, he looked at his estate. br An exile making watches glanced up as he passed, br And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast br A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell br Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well. br The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great. br br Far off in Paris, where his enemies br Whsipered that he was wicked, in an upright chair br A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write br "Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight br Against the false and the unfair br Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise. br br Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all, br He'd had the other children in a holy war br Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly br And humble, when there was occassion for br The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie, br But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall. br br And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win: br Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest br Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done, br And only himself to count upon. br Dear Diderot was dull but did his best; br Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in. br br So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong, br Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead, br And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses br Itching to boil their children. Only his verses br Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead br The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.br br W.H.