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Poem	O HOLY SPIRIT of the Hazel, hearken now: Though shining suns and silver moons burn on the bough, And though the fruit of stars by many myriads gleam, Yet in the undergrowth below, still in thy dream, Lighting the monstrous maze and labyrinthine gloom Are many gem-winged flowers with gay and delicate bloom. And in the shade, hearken, O Dreamer of the Tree, One wild-rose blossom of thy spirit breathed on me With lovely and still light: a little sister flower To those that whitely on the tall moon-branches tower. Lord of the Hazel, now, O hearken while I pray. This wild-rose blossom of thy spirit fades away.
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