 | Mystic Trees |  |
108
THE OLIVE-SHOOT
It is a summer Message, plucked from Holy Rood;
There the Dove has plucked an olive-shoot,
For the Tree grows stout and good,
With the waves swaying round it, calming at its foot.
There the Dove has plucked an olive-shoot,
For the Tree grows stout and good,
With the waves swaying round it, calming at its foot.
Young, tender, fast in burgeon on its little mound,
From the water-fields the Tree springs green,
And the Dove espies and doth not count
The Waste of the interminable waves between:
From the water-fields the Tree springs green,
And the Dove espies and doth not count
The Waste of the interminable waves between:
But snaps the live twig, lays it in our lap for mirth;
We bosom it and the Dove takes wing,
Or in the air, or from a nest on earth,
Of Holy Rood through all the days to sing.
We bosom it and the Dove takes wing,
Or in the air, or from a nest on earth,
Of Holy Rood through all the days to sing.
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