Classic Poem

Who grafted quince on Western may,
Sharon's mild rose on Northern briar?
In loathing since that Gospel day
The two saps flame, the tree's on fire.

The briar-rose weeps for injured right,
May sprouts up red to choke the quince.
With angry throb of equal spite
Our wood leaps maddened ever since.

Then Mistletoe, of gods not least,
Kindler of warfare since the Flood,
Against green things of South and East
Voices the vengeance of our blood.

Crusading ivy Southward breaks
And sucks your lordly palms upon,
Our island oak the water takes
To war with cedared Lebanon.

Our slender ash-twigs feathered fly
Against your vines; bold buttercup
Pours down his legions; malt of rye
Inflames and burns your lentils up. . . .

For bloom of quince yet caps the may,
The briar is held by Sharon's rose;
Monsters of thought through earth we stray
And how remission comes, God knows.