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.