Green,
the Isle that makes its lovers captives
Living,
the thing that makes of me its silent slave
High
pitched, or low – sweet, or bittersweet
The
liveliness that wakes in me the keening
And
the longing to know: – those willows in me
Weeping,
as they touch the moving waters
Singing
of the depths they keep for such as me:
Wells
of wine, and a grail full of holy love and truth
From
the womb of the dawn telling where the Isle is
The
Greening Isle of ripe apple boughs that tangle
With
my willows and weave in me the sighing fruit:
The
apples of gold in light’s silver silken pictures
That
for love braves the death that brings the
Bright
Life and threads the gifted mist across the lake.
Any
parting of the willow from the apple tree takes
My
breath away: soul from spirit dividing asunder
Rends
me in two, that where two makes one I live.
*
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