Wait, poor prattler, he will go,
False as April flowers.
No, my joy, we cannot own him
Ours.
From his arms to keep you? Never!
Baby dear!
From his arms, your native sphere.
Home from labour comes he tired,
You and I, his only bliss.
Crown him, crown our king desired
To adore and kiss,
You and I his slaves forever,
His.
Poplar, Beech, and Weeping Willow.
Shapely poplar shivering white, poplar like a maiden,
Thinking, musing softly here so light and so unladen
That with every breath and stir perpetually you gladden,
Teach me your still secrecy of thoughts that never sadden.
From the heavy-hearted earth, earth of grief and passion,
Maiden, would you spring with me, and leave men's lowly fashion?
Skyward lift with me your thoughts in cumberless elation,
Every leaf and every shoot a virgin aspiration.
The blue day, the floating clouds, the stars shall you for palace
Proffer their pure world of pomp, dawn her rosy chalice,
Where the birds are you shall wing and revel to be lonely,
In the clear of heaven to spire and sway with breezes only.
Beech of lofty aisles the queen, beech of trees the lady,
Soaring to a tower of sighs in branches soft and shady,
