Eleanor Farjeon


Here lie I in the underworld of trees,
  Over my head I have a wave of leaves
Through whose loose shimmering weave of mysteries
  The rays of heaven come in yellow sheaves

Till every leaf is like an amber lamp
  Lit at the very source of golden light;
The netted green has drawn the sun's own stamp
  And myriad tiny suns are in my sight,

While such a radiant harmony, on wings
  I hear but see not, seems my world to throng
I could believe the only voice that sings
  Is of the leafage sparkling into song.

To-day within my soul I may contain
  As much melodic light as one fine leaf
Receives from heaven and gives out again
  Into an underworld grown dim with grief.

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