When I see a young tree In its white beginning, With white leaves And white buds Barely tipped with green, In the April weather, In the weeping sunshine-- Then I see my lady, My democratic queen, Standing free and equal With the youngest woodland sapling Swaying, singing in the wind, Delicate and white: Soul so near to blossom, Fragile, strong as death; A kiss from far off Eden, A flash of Judgment’s trumpet-- April’s breath. TO EVE, MAN’S DREAM OF WIFEHOOD AS DESCRIBED BY MILTON Darling of Milton--when that marble man Saw you in shadow, coming from God’s hand Serene and young, did he not chant for you Praises more quaint than he could understand? “To justify the ways of God to man”-- So, self-deceived, his printed purpose runs. His love for you is the true key to him, And Uriel and Michael were your sons. Your bosom nurtured his Urania. Your meek voice, piercing through his midnight sleep Shook him far more than silver chariot wheels Or rattling shields, or trumpets of the deep. Titan and lover, could he be content With Eden’s narrow setting for your spell? You wound soft arms around his brows. He smiled And grimly for your home built Heaven and Hell. That was his posy. A strange gift, indeed. We bring you what we can, not what is fit. Eve, dream of wifehood! Each man in his way Serves you with chants according to his wit. A KIND OF SCORN You do not know my pride Or the storm of scorn I ride. I am too proud to kiss you and leave you Without wonders Spreading round you like flame. I am too proud to leave you Without love Haunting your very name: Until you bear the Grail Above your head in splendor O child, dear and pale. I am too proud to leave you Though we part forevermore Till all your thoughts Go up toward Glory’s door. Oh, I am but a sinner proud and poor, Utterly without merit To help you climb in wonder A stair toward Heaven’s door-- Except that I have prayed my God, And He will give the Grail, And you will mourn no longer, Beset, confused, and pale. And God will lift you far on high, The while I pray and pray Until the hour I die. The effectual fervent prayer availeth much. And my first prayer ascends this proud harsh day. HARPS IN HEAVEN I will bring you great harps in Heaven, Made of giant shells From the jasper sea. With a thousand burnt up years behind, What then of the gulf from you to me? It will be but the width of a thread, Or the narrowest leaf of our sheltering tree. You dare not refuse my harps in Heaven. Or angels will mock you, and turn away. Or with angel wit, Will praise your eyes, And your pure Greek lips, and bid you play, And sing of the love from them to you, And then of my poor flaming heart In the far off earth, when the years were new.