PHOCAS
Then, while no voice or hand of man
Comfort or courage gave
(But the serene stars in the sky
Watch’d, and the dew fell tenderly,
And sweetly rose the breath of flowers),
Did Phocas dig his grave.
Which done, he threaded here and there
The darkling garden-ground,
As through his home a blind man goes,
And where to seek and find he knows;
And store of certain other plants
He brought, and set them round.
In all the uprooting having said
To each, “Forgive it me!”
And round about the yawning space
Each one in its peculiar place
Planting, he bless’d, and said to it,
“God root and nourish thee!”
The first were naked Crocus bulbs.
Them laid he at the head.
“Ye first-fruits of the wintry mould,
Ye happy Gospels writ in gold,
Prophesy here the bright robe of
My buried flesh,” he said.
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