Soft little daughters of the mead,
The random bush, the wanton weed,
That lived to love, and loved to breed,
Who hither bound you?
You're innocent of all the screed
That blows around you.
Sweet daffodils so laughing yellow,
Beneath a bending pussy-willow,
You need not try to gulp and swallow
The Apostles' Creed,
Or shudder at the fates that follow
Adam's deed.
Big bloody hymns the choir sings,
And blows it to the King of Kings,
The while you dream of humble things
That wander there
Where first you spread your golden wings
On summer air;
Like Jesus, simple and divine,
In beauty, not in raiment fine,
Who asked no high or holier shrine
In which to pray,
Than garden groves of Palestine
'Neath olives gray.
His name, I think, would still be bright
Though churches were unbuilded quite,
And they whose hearts are toward the height
Should simple be,
And lift their heads into the light
As straight as ye. |