I would that I were as the ivy-root,
Down in the mould and the dark and the cold,
Yet ever feeding the anxious shoot
As it climbs in the realms of gold.
For I should know how it fared above,
Up in the tree-top, facing the sun,
And spreading a shelter to shield the dove,
And the thrushes every one:
And I should know when the day was done
And a great wind rushed from the sunken sun,
How the boughs and the clinging vines were swayed
In the moving music the great wind made.
And at night
When the light
Of the starry throng
Had pierced to the midmost heart of the vine,
Below,
I should know,
All the whole night long,
The leaves in the dew and the pale star-shine:
Yea, I should know all the lights that move,
The song of the thrush, and the call of the dove;
But only live for the vine above,
And feed it full of my love.