 | Mystic Trees |  |
136
MOSS
I lie as a dull and heavy mossThat spreadeth dry beneath Thy Cross.
I lift for Thy drooped eyes no flower-bell
To shield Thee from the passer-by;
I sigh forth no odour for Thee to smell,
Though Thy nostrils search and cry;
But my meshes and plots, where I lie,
With Blood from Thy Feet are tingled;
My Earth with Thy Blood is mingled—
Should Thy lovely Feet be once unbound,
I yield Thee a carpet, soft, profound.
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