BY DR. AGONSON
I stopped, whereat I know, and from there forward went unto my destined shores,
but stopped, bespelled I was when in the corner of my eye, so soft
in color through the gloom, an early sign of spring, I saw a tree of white
as like a ghost—more like a living, breathing thing among the dead—
amid that drear and grasping death of seasons were its living boughs so clothed
I thought an early snow, yet no! it was not icy death but life.
I stopped in shadowed pass to see that wondrous tree where little was the sun
—and how did it survive in such a place where towered mighty firs,
their forests I do love, but deadly to the smaller trees I always thought?—
so meek and low, but brilliant there, its blazing white like Moses’ bush,
it need the sun when in darkness it was a light, a moon or star itself?
yet so I learned that in darkness there will be light, and light is life.
I stopped, but driving on, I knew I’d never leave in heart that lovely tree
where half clothed nature there unveiled to me beauty, her sacred truth.
So like her prophet must I speak, a lunatic who sees within the dark
but dimly better things—I see the world as if only my dream,
yet let me dream, for even dreams may have a source, may come from Heaven’s throne—
I stopped because beauty was there; I stopped to taste the truth I found.