 | Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay |  |
MY LADY IS COMPARED TO A YOUNG TREE
When I see a young treeIn its white beginning,
With white leaves
And white buds
Barely tipped with green,
In the April weather,
In the weeping sunshine—
Then I see my lady,
My democratic queen,
Standing free and equal
With the youngest woodland sapling
Swaying, singing in the wind,
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Soul so near to blossom,
Fragile, strong as death;
A kiss from far-off Eden,
A flash of Judgment's trumpet—
April's breath.
| Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | |