The Laurel Throne

That which for light and perfume quite outbraved The perfume-breathing and most luminous East, From fruit and flower to bud and bough the least, That paragon of beauty which had saved All glory to the West now gently waved, My laurel sweet, and danced as at a feast; Under its boughs my Lord and Lady ceased Their wistful talk and found the peace they craved. Then I the nest of all my thoughts most white Fixed in my soul’s fair tree, and, fire and ice, I thrilled and flamed with joy, and made my moan. The laurel ruled the world by its own right, When God, to make more bright His Paradise, Took it!—ah me! It ever was His own.