  I THOUGHT to lay my hands about Thy Crown, And gather, bleeding, its sharp spines: But as I knelt and bowed my forehead down, Worshipping thy cruel desert-Crown, Worshipping its thicket of sharp spines— Through them blew a little wind, Clearer than the dew in breath Round Thy Mother’s feet at Nazareth; In a cloud it left behind Scent of violets, of such birth They had never broken earth, But through meshes of the Crown of Thorn, In a fertilising cloud, were born; And, fresh with piety of grace, Were thrown—oh sweet!—unseen across my face. That never will a mould-born violet-bed Smell like the violets from the Sacred Head. |
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