Classic Poem

Young was the green world's chart
Young did the pearl clouds part
Young was the hate in my heart
This my bow bending—
Struck I my spear in the ground
Hush: was there magic round?
Was the world's law discrowned
Was the world ending?

Shot I my shafts: I heard
Each wave wings as it whirred
Each bolt turn to a bird
Sped, singing so—
Turned I my spear to behold
Branching it stood in the mould
Blossomed a fruit tree old
Where was my foe?

Chattered the birds in bands
“Lost in the ancient sands
Ruined his sepulchre stands.”
“Mute is his mirth”
Out of the leaves of the tree.
Entered the cry into me
“We are the meek—yea we
Inherit the Earth.”