The day that is no day calls for a tree
That is no tree, of low yet lofty growth.
When the pale Queen of Autumn casts her leaves
My leaves are freshly tufted on her boughs.
When the wild apple drops her goodly fruit
My all-heal fruit hangs ripening on her boughs.
Look, the twin temple-posts of green and gold,
The overshadowing lintel stone of white.
For here with white and green and gold I shine -
Graft me upon the King when his sap rises
That I may bloom with him at the year's prime,
That I may blind him in his hour of joy.