A Controversy
Let us no more dispute of Heaven and Hell!
How should we know what none hath ever seen ?
We'll watch instead the same sweet miracle
That every April work in wood and green. . . .
The apples in our orchard are a bower
Of budding bright-green leaf and pearly flower,
No two alike of all the myriad blossom !
Some faintly-flushing as a maiden's bosom,
Some pursed in hardy pink, and some as pale
As whitening stars above the twilit vale.
If sometimes from His balcony on high.
The Lord of all the stars, with musing eye,
Look down upon this orchard of our world,
Methinks he marks as blossom dewy-pearled
Sprung from the branches of the self-same tree,
Our varying faiths — and all the creeds there be!—
Indifferently radiant, chiefly dear
For that ripe harvest of the later year
Which promises a winter-wealth of mead
To fill the goblet up and brim the bowl:—
His wine of generous thought and ample deed
Sprung from the blossom of a perfect soul.
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