Poem Tree (For Rupert Brooke)
I dreamed of Poem Tree that grew
Purple fruit like passion's flood
Blossomed ripe as so mysteriously drew
Not Earth's sap: but drops of blood.
I dreamed my Tree took flight and fell
To root again in ancient place,
Where flowers weave a magic spell
For those who plead for Heaven's Face.
I dreamed the fruit and then the flower
Changed to hemlock in which glade,
Black witches brew within the hour:
Where harvest moon shows dead night shade.
Last night my Tree spoke soft and low
A melody of silver tongues,
Its leaves, a motion made to show:...