Ye fields that are flowered
In purple and white,
Embossed and embowered
By the love of the light,
Gold-sandalled and showered,
Dew-kissed of the night,
Your song is too faint and too joyous for mortals to hear
it aright.
Blue pansies, and roses,
And poppies of red,
Pale violets in posies
Where Hyacinth bled,
The flower that closes
Its dolorous head ;—
What song may be sung, or what tune may be told, or
what word may be said?
All tropical scent,
Blossom-kindled perfume,
Love-colours new-lent
By the infinite womb,
Gold subtlety blent
With the scarlet bloom ;—
Shall ye in my melody live? Shall my song be not
rather your tomb?
Most musical moves
The head of the corn ;
Strong glorious loves
Of its being are born.
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