– 9 –

Willows in the Valley

In a secluded valley, at a spring noontide,
New September sunlight subdued by fugitive rains,
We saw the ghosts of willow-trees waiting embodiment,
Assembled in a pasture’s emerald bay.

These were not trees we saw, these were tree-spirits
In the still noonday shown us, and a waking dream;
Thoughts of young willows not imprisoned yet,
Impalpable boughs and incorporeal green.

They stood, those delicate spheres (a distillation
Of purest green and golden mist and rosy haze
Their fabric) motionless; they were poised airily,
As they had danced thither, and might dance away.

The small bird riro-riro a secret rivulet
Of song made warble there; the musical shade
Of bird-to-be, fluting in ghostly willow-wood
Happy-sad lullaby for spirits soon to wake.

Or were these phantom willows from beyond the waves
  Of time’s deep ocean, trees upon whose branches
  Aliens hung up their harps, fair maid her garland
By fatal stream, or shading tyrants’ graves?

And the small bird-trill, fluttering echo faint
  Of oaten pipe that once by legendary shepherd
  Was played in far green European meadow,
Telling old sylvan pleasures, pastoral complaint?

It was a vision of willows in magical young green…
Spring-time is vision; come, gone, imperishable;
Spring is dim cloudland of new bliss, impenetrable;
Spring is a sunbreathed veil on what shall be, has been,
A bright stuff spun of the seen and the unseen.