A sturdy, wayward, wilding growth,
That mocked their maimèd dream
Of life and truth in legend carved
On groinèd arch and beam.
Men stood amazed. The teachers cried,
“Behold the curse of earth!
Its life must die or all our words
Are but as nothing worth.”
“Nay, nay,” cried others, “but let it stand,
Perchance a miracle.”
Then straight about its burgeoning boughs
Old bloody battles fell.
Wild clamor and clash of fiery arms,
The old against the new.
Mad hosts arrayed with banner and blade,
Where war’s wild trumpets blew.
But as they strove by gates of blood,
With glad unconscious youth,
Higher and wider skyward climbed
The newer tree of truth.
And blithe within its boughs their nests
The birds of heaven made,
While at its foot mid earth’s old ruins,
The happy children played.
And form and cant were swept away,
While under its dream sublime,
Men drank anew ’neath heaven’s arch
From nature for a time.
Yea, still it spreads its antres vast,
Through peace and clash of arms,
And blossoms brave and blithe and free,
O’er all earth’s shrunk alarms.
And still men battle to destroy
The living for the dead
Old ruined trunk of that which towers
Its glories overhead:
And strive for art’s distorted ways,
While from earth’s heart of youth,
Higher and wider heavenward spreads
The ancient tree of truth.