TO THE FLOWERS AT CHURCH

Soft little daughters of the mead,

The random bush, the wanton weed,

That lived to love, and loved to breed,

Who hither bound you?

You're innocent of all the screed

That blows around you.

Sweet daffodils so laughing yellow,

Beneath a bending pussy-willow,

You need not try to gulp and swallow

The Apostles’ Creed,

Or shudder at the fates that follow

Adam's deed.

Big bloody hymns the choir sings,

And blows it to the King of Kings,

The while you dream of humble things

That wander there

Where first you spread your golden wings

On summer air;

Like Jesus, simple and divine,

In beauty, not in raiment fine,

Who asked no high or holier shrine

In which to pray,

Than garden groves of Palestine

‘ Neath olives gray.

His name, I think, would still be bright

Though churches were unbuilded quite,

And they whose hearts are toward the height

Should simple be,

And lift their heads into the light

As straight as ye.