  Who grafted quince on Western may, Sharon’s mild rose on Northern briar? In loathing since that Gospel day The two saps flame, the tree’s on fire. The briar-rose weeps for injured right, May sprouts up red to choke the quince. With angry throb of equal spite Our wood leaps maddened ever since. Then mistletoe, of gods not least, Kindler of warfare since the Flood, Against green things of South and East Voices the vengeance of our blood. Crusading ivy Southward breaks And sucks your lordly palms upon, Our island oak the water takes To outrage cedared Lebanon. Our slender ash-twigs feathered fly Against your vines; bold buttercup Pours down his legions; malt of rye Inflames and burns your lentils up.... For bloom of quince yet caps the may, The briar is held by Sharon’s rose, Monsters of thought through earth we stray, And how remission comes, God knows. |
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