To him that humbly here will look I'll ope the heavens wide, But ne'er a blessing brings a book To him that reads in pride. Whoe'er shall search me but to see Some fact he hath foretold, Making my gospel but his prophecy. My New his little Old. To him that opens his hands upwards to me like a thirsty plant I am Rain, But to him that merely stands as a patron by to see me perform I am Zero and a Drought. Then three tall lilies floated white along To these woods: we come from Nature, Ambassadors, for thou gavest us consideration, For thou said'st, Consider the lilies, And who considers them will soon consider And how that they did exceed the glory of Solomon. How in the Age gone by Thou took'st the Time upon thy knee As a child, A Time that smote thee in the face Even whilst thou did kiss it, And how it tore out thy loving eyes Even while thou didst teach it. The monstrous things the mighty world hath kept In reverence 'gainst the law of reverence: The lies of Judith, Brutus' treachery, Damon's deceit, all wiles of war. TO A CERTAIN THREE OAKS IN DRUID HILL PARK Let me lean against you, my Loves, Give me a place, my darlings, I am so happy, so fain, so full, in your large company. I knew a saint that said he never went among men without returning home less a man than he was before he went forth. But it is not so with you: I am always more a man when I converse with you. Who is so manly and so manifold sweet as a tree? There is none that can talk like a tree: for a tree says always to me exactly that which I wish him to say. A man is apt to say what I did not desire to hear, or what I had no need to know at that time. A tree knows always my necessity. O Earth, O mother, thou my Beautiful, Why frowns this shallow feud 'twixt me and thee? Were I a bad son, deaf, undutiful, Nor loved thy mother-talk, thy gramarye Of groves, thy hale discourse of fact in terms That mince not, yea, thy sharp cold winter Like as the love lore thine expressive germs Of spring do plainly petal forth,—'twere cause Conceivable of quarrel. HOW TWELVE STAGS PLOWED FOR SAINT LEONOR Ere yet to brakeward stole the feeding fawn, While grave and lone about the greenwood lay All soft seclusions of the dimmest dawn, Forth from his hut, in heavenly airs to pray