Classic Poem

I

No more then you recall those mornings fair
of marvel? Clouds seemed all things to enclose,
rosy and white, of peach and plum; an air

all hanging full of feathery tufts; or rose
or white, or both; the apple blossoms gleamed,
frail apricots, the pear, that hardy grows.

Such, neath the veiling of our tears, then seemed
that orchard, and, reflected there for days,
it held a heavenly light of dawn undreamed.

That dawn, you know, shed round us hopeful rays,
but, faring forth already from its hive,
the eager bee upon the illusion preys,

whence it makes, as I, the honey of its life.

II

A cloud, and then a rain, and gradually
the winter came again, and we, shut in
long days, could hear the fire talk grumblingly.

The trees of rose and white had vanished, thin
in densest fog; and through the dull serene
an unremitting sound of spools that spin,

and rain on rain. The sun, so long unseen,
shone out anew at the early bells' refrain;
and all the world, that orchard too, was green.

Where was the filigree that high had lain?
Petals all on the ground, and in the clear,
rose dawn, we trod upon the memories vain,

each one of them still bearing its own tear.

III

" O sister soul, " I said to you that day,
" they live, and well we know: though life be fair,
for it a thing more sweet we fling away:

its fragile flowering forth of wings. Whene'er
a tree sees on its boughs the fruit it bore,
it points to earth, where lie the blossoms rare

by it now to oblivion given o'er.
But not this tree (I interrupted here),
that has no blooms below, no fruit boughs more. "

It stood there with no blitheness, and no fear,
and with no spring time, nor by winters shorn,
that tree, from which the storm had taken sheer
the leaves, that but to fall again are born.

IV

" An unknown tree, " I said, do you recall?
" a tree most strange, that flaunts forth in its leaves
two disharmonious greens, green-yellow all;

a tree of varied branches, one that grieves,
with leaves unlike, these sharp and pointed those,
and I know not what horrid knobs and weaves.

O tree, " I said, " whose vigor weakness shows,
O tree, whose budding blossoms give no sign,
that seest no wings down-fallen round thee close;

O tree of death, it is no care of thine,
when breezes bring the pollen and soft winds blow
in sudden showers, that fiercely beat the vine. . . .

In thee has taken root the mistletoe! "

V

What wind of hatred bore to thee that seed
soft and little? What force, evil or blind,
inserted it in thy hard bark? Indeed

thou didst not know, nor heed; it undermined
thy will, and its green veins, within thee blent,
would its foul food in thy soft marrow find.

And thou didst languish. Peace and beauty went
away from thee, and thy mind no more knew
the sound of pulsing buds, thy lichens lent.

The seed ploughed on and conquered, and it grew.
All thy sweet grace, the fruits upon thy bough,
the fragrant breath that from thy blossoms blew,

are but a pearl of greenish pallor now.

VI

Two souls there are in thee, O tree. Dost mind
their conflict more, when sometimes thou dost heed,
amid the indolent murmurings of the wind?

One soul, sometimes in smiles, sometimes in need,
whose laugh thou heardst from buds that blossoms bore,
who from thy fresh-trimmed branches, sad would plead,

who, at the hairy bee's swift flight, before
trembled with love, is now to thee unknown.
The other is thy life, and more and more

from thy true self thou fleest, silent, alone;
and the strange shadow is thy very breath.
'Tis thou, whatever buds thou once hast grown,

that art distilling now the germ of death.