Classic Poem

O Queen, I bring thee heather white as a prayer:
Heather fostered beneath a mountain fir.
But, hush, I hear a voice in the wind demur —
— Not white, but purple is meet for a queen to wear.
Bring purple heather for her royal hair,
Or crimson heather — is not thy heart astir
With a tumult of crimson blood when you think of her
So cold, so proud, and so surpassingly fair? —

O Queen, and I answer the wind in gentle-wise,
Saying that I have chosen as embassy
This passionless heather, thinking it may devise
Some white, soft, suppliant way to word my plea
To tell how earth is hallowed by thine eyes,
How life grows holier in loving thee.