More tranced than death in this far following,
Careless of winter, not invoking spring ;
And all the witless woods company us and sing.
But not the glades by song of thee unstricken?
Not they? Shall they refuse the pulse to quicken,
Soft smiting the low melody of light?
Tuned without fingers, the wild woods lift high
The wordless chant, the murmurous melody,
The song that dwells like moon-enkindled night.
We draw from low palm groves and cedar hills,
From stern grey slumbers, for thy music fills
All earth with unimaginable delight.
Have we not brought the leaves dew-diamonded,
The buds fresh-gleaming, star-blossoms, and shed
Our scent and colour and song around thy sacred head?
We that are flowers are kindled in thy praise,
Even as thy song shed lustre and swift rays,
Darting to brighten and open the folded flowers,
The violet lifts its head, the lily lightens,
The daisy shakes its dew, the pansy brightens,
All cups of molten light upon the twilight hours.
The poppy flames anew, the buttercup
Glows with fresh fire, the larkspur rouses up
To be the lark indeed amid the azalea bowers.
Magnolia and light blooms of roses mute
Rouse them to gather in one golden lute
In fairy light and song into the sky to shoot.
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