Spring Song: 1939
UP from the roots of hate the sap is flowing:
Fear is flowing up from the wintry roots.
(Is it an empty tomb in the midst of the garden?)
Fed from a hidden ferment, the testy shoots
Of wrath, the dragons’ teeth of the autumn sowing,
Pierce the mulch of palaver that masks the incipient fruits.
(Is it the gardener walking at dawn in the garden?)
Fear is flowing up from the wintry roots.
(Is it an empty tomb in the midst of the garden?)
Fed from a hidden ferment, the testy shoots
Of wrath, the dragons’ teeth of the autumn sowing,
Pierce the mulch of palaver that masks the incipient fruits.
(Is it the gardener walking at dawn in the garden?)
Up from the clammy sod the blossom trembles:
Fear is nursing the poison-buds of despair.
(Is it an empty tomb in the midst of the garden?)
Stench of betrayal, blatant, sickens the air,
Burgeon and breath impure, that nothing dissembles.
Bull-briar, creeper, thorn, and strangle-vine, everywhere.
(Is it the gardener walking at dawn in the garden?)
Fear is nursing the poison-buds of despair.
(Is it an empty tomb in the midst of the garden?)
Stench of betrayal, blatant, sickens the air,
Burgeon and breath impure, that nothing dissembles.
Bull-briar, creeper, thorn, and strangle-vine, everywhere.
(Is it the gardener walking at dawn in the garden?)
O Risen Christ,
By the power of Thine empty tomb,
We beseech Thee,
Out of this death bring life,
Out of this jungle-promise, philtres of love,
And simples of healing, and garlands.
By the power of Thine empty tomb,
We beseech Thee,
Out of this death bring life,
Out of this jungle-promise, philtres of love,
And simples of healing, and garlands.