If earth had nothing else to speak for her,
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Her only lovely vindication thou,
Thou in a cindered waste the sole thing fair,
Framed in the dross and basalt of despair,
But only thy dew-drenched siderial bough
A lonely witchcraft there.
If the great sea were not, with all its blue,
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And forests with green continents of dew;
If all were wilderness, and brutish things,
Travail of wallowing slime and shuddering stone,
No plumage gay and happy flight of wings,
There 'mid fanged horror and abysmal storm,
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And boiling floods and drift of flaming sleet;
Annunciation magically sweet,
Thy frail triumphant form,
A lovely spectre from the dark up-sent,
It were enough assurance that some soul
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Of starry purpose through the blindness moved,
And, 'mid the hard-wrung travail of the whole,
That something dreamed and loved.
One spray of dogwood, though the rest were hell,
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Were faith enough, enough of miracle,
The heart and end of being to foretell.
Eyes that in spring have seen the dogwood shine
Need ask from earth no other seal or sign,
Nor fear at last within that mould to lie
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That lifts such fairness from the darkling deep,
Perfect against the singing April sky—
Nor shrink in such a bed to fall asleep.