Little Things

Among the purple buds, like laden censers,

Careless upon the wind the catkins swing;

They lay a golden spell upon the morning.

From their soft glee how many trees will spring?

The tiny spiders on wych elms in May,

Of rare pale green; the young and downy bee,

Singing her first low song; the white ant's cradle--

They crowd upon us with their mystery.

The fourfold creamy blackthorn buds are folded

Close on green marvels, as upon a treasure

A child's hand; the five pearl doors open softly--

There's a gold house where some elf takes his pleasure.

On the small pear-bud, with its silver calyx,

Some one (I know not who) has set a cross,

Rosy and glowing. On that Calvary-rood

Love might hang long, and know not pain or loss.

Fire-white from curtains of intensest blue

The centre of the speedwell gleams; so fair,

So mystic-frail the tremulous pollen-worlds,

Divinity itself seems slumbering there.