HAWTHORN TIDE
25
None that hearken may hear: man may but pass and
adore,
And humble his heart in thanksgiving for joy that is now
no more.
And sudden, afront and ahead of him, joy is alive and
aflame
On the shrine whose incense is given of the godhead,
again the same.
Pale and pure as a maiden secluded in secret and
cherished with fear,
One sweet glad hawthorn smiles as it shrinks under
shelter, screened
By two strong brethren whose bounteous blossom
outsoars it, year after year,
While earth still cleaves to the live spring's breast as
a babe unweaned.
Never was amaranth fairer in fields where heroes of old
found rest,
Never was asphodel sweeter: but here they endure
not long,
