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536 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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There's golden apples on each bough ;
The spreading branches gleam above. Art thou, grown tall and queenly now,
The little maid I used to love ?
The deep recesses are aglow
With purple and with pearl-pale green, And aH'about thee come and go
Bright forms that bend and hail thee queen.
I know that now we stand within The faery-land of Heart's Delight
Where old-time heroes came to win
The Spear, the Cup, the Sword of Might.
And thou art Naive, the white flower
Of Death and Dream, of Hope and Doubt,
Immortal Beauty, for whose dower, The starry worlds were counted out.
Faint music softly swells and falls:
I follow thee, and we draw near A deep where never storm-bird calls,
And thy boat waits us crystal clear.
Through shimmering seas of opal fire We speed to gain the Well of Truth,
The Well that holds the World's Desire And gives the gods immortal youth.
Thy winged boat of diamond white, Like a great bird that fain would fly,
Beats back in flakes of rainbow light The crested waves swift fleeting by. |
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