Then mistletoe, of gods not least, Kindler of warfare since the Flood, Against green things of South and East Voices the vengeance of our blood. Crusading ivy Southward breaks And sucks your lordly palms upon, Our island oak the water takes To outrage cedared Lebanon. Our slender ash-twigs feathered fly Against your vines; bold buttercup Pours down his legions; malt of rye Inflames and burns your lentils up.... For bloom of quince yet caps the may, The briar is held by Sharon’s rose, Monsters of thought through earth we stray, And how remission comes, God knows. ON THE POET’S BIRTH A page, a huntsman, and a priest of God, Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety, Equally claiming the sole parenthood Of him the perfect crown of their variety. Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell; That always was her fate, she loved too well. “But, many-fathered little one,” she said, “Whether of high or low, of smooth or rough, Here is your mother whom you brought to bed. Acknowledge only me, be this enough, For such as worship after shall be told A white dove sired you or a rain of gold.” THE TECHNIQUE OF PERFECTION Said hermit monk to hermit monk, “Friend, in this island anchorage Our life has tranquilly been sunk From pious youth to pious age, “In such clear waves of quietness, Such peace from argument or brawl That one prime virtue I confess Has never touched our hearts at all. “Forgiveness, friend! who can forgive But after anger or dissent? This never-pardoning life we live May earn God’s blackest punishment.” His friend, resolved to find a ground For rough dispute between the two That mutual pardons might abound, With cunning from his wallet drew A curious pebble of the beach And scowled, “This treasure is my own:” He hoped for sharp unfriendly speech Or angry snatching at the stone. But honeyed words his friend outpours, “Keep it, dear heart, you surely know Even were it mine it still were yours, This trifle that delights you so.” The owner, acting wrath, cries, “Brother, What’s this? Are my deserts so small You’d give me trifles?” But the other Smiles, “Brother, you may take my all.” He then enraged with one so meek, So unresponsive to his mood, Most soundly smites the martyr cheek And rends the island quietude. The martyr, who till now has feigned In third degree of craftiness That meekness is so deep ingrained No taunt or slight can make it less, Spits out the tooth in honest wrath, “You hit too hard, old fool,” cried he. They grapple on the rocky path That zigzags downward to the sea.