the sacred wood

The Sacred Wood 

by May Sarton

A charm of columns crowds
The tranquil glade;
No leaves to be seen,
The sudden rush of green
Makes of the air a cloud
Above the colonnade. 

And this perspective breathes;
Unchanging, yet it grows.
The rich leaves of the trees
Renew through centuries
Those columns and those wreaths
Through which the season flows. 

The green rush comes and goes,
Light bursting through stained glass;
The coppers shine and fall
In the great airy hall,
But winter only shows
Structure more marvelous— 

The columns in a choir
Define the empty air;
That leafy cloud has gone
But only to bring on
This magic more severe,
The crucial form laid bare. 

Oh answer to a prayer
And to an old long hunger,
This ancient fertile glade,
This living colonnade
Where form and content are
Not parted any longer!