My Lady is Compared to a Young Tree

WHEN I see a young tree

In its white beginning,

With white leaves

And white buds

Barely tipped with green,

In the April weather,

In the weeping sunshine—

Then I see my lady,

My democratic queen,

Standing free and equal

With the youngest woodland sapling

Swaying, singing in the wind,

Delicate and white:

Soul so near to blossom,

Fragile, strong as death;

A kiss from far-off Eden,

A flash of Judgment’s trumpet—

April’s breath.