Deep night of cold among white stars, white like
All silent maiden’s face in silent, cold,
Slim thread of moon. Yet blue are flowers here,
In eyes I once thought, too, were silent. Bold
Am I to reach for her, but to such buds
Of flowers small I am an ancient tree
Full strong in green. This arrow mine is red
Though she is made of white and star and Fey
Things older than the moon. She turns her eyes.
A stag as white as she comes near. It speaks
No word for trees are made in quiet. God
Made tree and maiden, man and flower. Thus
The tree grows strong in reaching for his God,
And God well plants the flowers at his feet.
