The Earth draws off her robe of broidered flowers,
And in green kirtle standeth for a space
Ere she doth wrap her for the silent hours
In her white shift of mist, and veils her face;
She standeth in her kirtle green, and saith
Her evening prayer, whose incense is her breath.
Here are no unquiet sounds and no alarms;
Hence all that is not gentle doth depart.
She takes her weary children in her arms
That she may warm them at her kindly heart;
Are any poor, knowing that they all lie
Lapped in her light embraces silently?
The Heaven doth wear upon her holy breast
The argent moon, her badge; her livery,
That is a royal, rich and azure vest,
Shows she doth serve a might majesty;
And a fair weed, purple and cinnamon,
She now above that silken vest doth on.
How might man image her in his own guise?
As a crowned spirit quiet as forest lawns,
Void of all woe and of all sad surprise,
Facing eternal sunsets and bright dawns,
And brooding o’er him that he may not mark
The outer tempests and the empty dark.
1917.