Classic Poem

I WILL make an altar of earth
With myrtle deckt and with yew,
Covered with sods: the dew
Shall wash it dainty and clean.
I raise it, O Child, to you;
To the peace you have, and the mirth,
To the wells of love in your eyes
And the sweet tide of your breath,
To your young blood ere it dries;
To Innocence, Ardour, and You.

Hymnia you shall be call'd;
For worship of you the shrine
Is built of pure thought, and fine
As the mould of your shapeliness.
Let Summer breathe on it, and bees,
And the wind's love; from the vine
I borrow clinging; let Dawn
Greet you thro' lattice of trees—
Plane, and Poplar that sighs,
And Lime, the lover of bees.

Smooth, rounded, and knit
As the fashion of perfect limbs
I would have it be: of your eyes
I ask for the sanctities
Of their violet glint ere it dims
To kindle the fire on it.
Above the green altar-ledge
Still, incessant, your eyes
Fire the dusk: they are lit
From the love in my heart that lies.

Give of your hair to hide
The altar-house; spray it wide
In a silk mesh—ah, my pride!
Was ever iconostase
So superbly bedeckt
With warm brown curtain, or fleckt
As this with rays of the sun?
Or when since Mass was begun
Came priest to cover his face
In so burnisht curtain and wide?

Your breath is for incense-flight
From the censer pure of your mouth:
It is odorous of the South
And the pastures of all the West
The wet fresh growth of the year,
Honeysuckle and thyme,
Anemones meek as death,
Crocuses yellow and white:
All shy blossoms are here
Nurst in your balmy breath

For altar-stone is your lap
Whereon, a pure offering,
I lay down flowers, a song,
A bird's dropt feather, a ring
Woven of scented rush
For my spousal with Earth. And I crush
From mallows the milky sap,
Flour from the burnt brown wheat,
And from limes the honey, to make
For the altar a fairy cake.

Kneeling I lift eyes up
The ripple of you, and see
As a bud stiff on her stalk
Your face in whose beam I walk
Lift from your gown's dark cup,
And your grave eyes fixt on me.
Then I fall, bending the knee,
For your mouth quivers, a tear
Veils your seeing: I know
Your heart's grief, O my dear!

Heaven kiss'd Earth and loved her
Face to face in the wild
Still deeps of a night
Once in June. O Child,
Thou, pledge of delight,
Thou wert born of that night,
Spirit of Earth, the joy
Of whoso loveth cool rain,
And summer heats, and the pain
Of frosts, and spring's onset mild:—
Thou art Earth's quick-born child!