The wind sang low
At the window in the hall door.
Bless me! exclaimed in a space between rooms,
Could that be a visitant there?
It was as if a gust of air
Had blow aside the wayward view;
The oak enthroned among its leaves
The aspect of a creature newly made.
The man of the house had made his gloom
Edge out the air, and in his room
The child who could dispel it.
While I stood here and watched the tree,
My mind contrived to fell it.
And what is such a vision, after all?
But what of those who’ve wooed and won
A sighting, a striving, a word, or a crown?
His skirts, silken and heavy,
Suddenly rustled and heaved in the wind;
There was no need to speak.
Rocking on my heels like a preacher, I said,
I won’t bow down to you, tree,
But I will love you,
For all that is good reflects the Good,
Is all we can know of the Good.
With a smile of forbearance the angel
passed down its hands and parted wide the leaves:
There in the space the heavens quaked.
The branches were upheld like candelabras.