Classic Poem

Out of his ash did he conceive her mood,
Repentant Eve, her sad face bowed among
Cascades of hair, her limbs, that had been dewed
Lately in Eden where the apples hung,
Now carved for ever in a lovely sorrow,
All love, all grief, all kindred with the flowers
That now flush wood and meadow, and to-morrow
Are ghosts, are tears among remembered hours.
O little Eve, bowed in your loss for ever,
Bowed bosom and clasped hands and hidden face,
We are your sorrow too, and master never
The loss of spring and the wild April grace —
We love, and sin, and lose, as you to be
An image carved in beauty from the tree.