Here burns the lonely land bright-bannered with morning,
Here beat the white seas knowing no conquest from prows
Of the marauding vessels, no violation nor warning,
Nor a hand to thrust apart the screen of the boughs.
Deep, deep in woodland heart, in a sky-walled prison
Stern in its guardianship of flower and wing . . .
Ah, guard me too, I am spent! let a sun new-risen
Lock me in amber, let the bird seraphs sing
Fierce at the Eden gates, and halt without
All who forgo not the taint of the wise fruit eaten.
Clean of knowledge I lie here, clean of longing or doubt;
I am the grove the singing voices shall sweeten,
There is no pattern upon me, save the windís weaving
Shadow and light together, save the wreathed lupin-blue waters;
Speak to the silent, speak to the true-believing,
Mosses and fern and maiden . . . thy hidden daughters.