A silence fell, Broke by the voice of Gabriel: "Music may follow this, O Lord! Music I hear; I hear discord Through ages yet to be, as well. There will be wars because of this, And wars will come in its despite. It's noon on the world now; blackest night Will follow soon. And men will miss The meaning, Lord! There will be strife 'Twixt Montanist and Ebionite, Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean, 'Twixt Christian and the Saracen. There will be war to win the place Where you bend death to sovereign life. Armed kings will battle for the grace Of rulership, for power and gold In the name of Jesus. Men will hold Conclaves of swords to win surcease Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace. The seed is good, Lord, make the ground Good for the seed you scatter round!" Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone: "The gardener sprays his plants and trees To drive out lice and stop disease. After the spraying, fruit is grown Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes Of men can see this end, although Leaves wither or a whole tree dies From what the gardener does to grow Apples and plums of sweeter flesh. The gardener lives outside the tree; The gardener knows the tree can see What cure is needed, plans afresh An end foreseen, and there's the will Wherewith the gardener may fulfil The orchard's destiny." So He spake. And Friar Yves seemed to wake, But did not wake, and only sunk Into another dreaming state, Wherein he saw a woman's form Leaning against the chestnut's trunk. Her body was virginal, white, and straight, And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm, Behind a robe of writhing green: As when a rock's wall makes a screen Whereon the crisscross reflect moves Of circling water under the rays Of April sunlight through the sprays Of budding branches in willow groves-- A liquid mosaic of green and gold-- Thus was her robe. But to behold Her face was to forget the youth Of her white bosom. All her hair Was tangled serpents; she did wear A single eye in the middle brow. Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough O'ershadowed her the while she gripped A pail in either hand. One dripped Clear water; one, ethereal fire. Then to the Graia spoke the friar: "Have mercy! Tell me your desire And what you are?"