The young girl stood beside me. <br />I Saw not what her young eyes could see: <br />- A light, she said, not of the sky <br /> Lives somewhere in the Orange Tree. <br /> <br />- Is it, I said, of east or west? <br /> The heartbeat of a luminous boy <br />Who with his faltering flute confessed <br /> Only the edges of his joy? <br /> <br />Was he, I said, borne to the blue <br /> In a mad escapade of Spring <br />Ere he could make a fond adieu <br /> To his love in the blossoming? <br /> <br />- Listen! the young girl said. There calls <br /> No voice, no music beats on me; <br />But it is almost sound: it falls <br /> This evening on the Orange Tree. <br /> <br />- Does he, I said, so fear the Spring <br /> Ere the white sap too far can climb? <br />See in the full gold evening <br /> All happenings of the olden time? <br /> <br />Is he so goaded by the green? <br /> Does the compulsion of the dew <br />Make him unknowable but keen <br /> Asking with beauty of the blue? <br /> <br />- Listen! the young girl said. For all <br /> Your hapless talk you fail to see <br />There is a light, a step, a call <br /> This evening on the Orange Tree. <br /> <br />- Is it, 1 said, a waste of love <br /> Imperishably old in pain, <br />Moving as an affrighted dove <br /> Under the sunlight or the rain? <br /> <br />Is it a fluttering heart that gave <br /> Too willingly and was reviled? <br />Is it the stammering at a grave, <br /> The last word of a little child? <br /> <br />- Silence! the young girl said. Oh, why, <br /> Why will you talk to weary me? <br />Plague me no longer now, for I <br /> Am listening like the Orange Tree.<br /><br />John Shaw Neilson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-orange-tree/
