In God’s Gardens
The Crisis
April 1912
O mist-blown Lily of the north,
A-bending southward in thy bloom,
And bringing beauty silver sown
And pale blue radiance of snows—
O fair white ily, bowing low,
Above the dream-swept poppy’s mouth,
Athwart the black and crimson South—
Why dost thou fear—why dos thou fear?
Lo! sense its sleep-sown subtle breath,
Where wheel in passioned whirl above
All lingering, luring love of love—
All perfume born of dole and death.
Cold ghost-wreathed Lily of the North,
When once thy dawning darkens there,
Come then with sunlight-sifted hair
And seek the haunting heaven of Night.
Where, over moon-mad shadows whirled,
The star-tanned mists dim swathe the sky
In phantasy to dream and die—
A wild sweet wedding of the World.