EASTER
AMONG the gay, exultant trees,
Over the green and growing grass,
Clothed in immortal mysteries,
I see His living body pass.
The catkins fling abroad His name,
While birds from every bush and spray
Strain feathered necks, and tipped with flame
The hills all stand to greet His day.
Each violet and bluebell curled
Wakes with the dead Christ’s waking eye,
And like burst gravestones clouds are hurled
Across the wide and waiting sky.
And drenched, for very height of mirth,
With clean white tears of April rain,
Like Mary Magdalene the earth
Finds April’s risen Lord again.
THE GLORY OF THE ORIFLAMME
THE glory of the Oriflamme,
Or strange, red flowers of the South
Hold no such splendours as lie hid
In your sweet mouth!
The secret honey of the Cliff,
The lure and laughter of the sea
Are not the dear delight that is
Your face to me!
What wilful trees of any spring
Than your young body are more fair?
What glamour of forgotten gold
Lurks in your hair?