The Wallace Daisy Field
Slim pointed pickets guard the summer dream,
Glimpsing behind their lichen-scrolléd bars;
Young shapes of white that in ethereal stream
Toss starry incense to the summer stars.
Ranked slender acolytes in harbor lane,
Communion bear to many a churchless breast;
Processional in falling summer rain,
Recessional to gold and Gothic West.
Only a daisy field—yet one man’s care
Enshrines it in immaculate gated reach;
Inviolate flowers veil them mistily there,
Spreading like moonlight to the moonlit beach...
Where the white patens disk the tabled green
Is read the sacred Word of sea and skies;
Chapelled within this occult daisy screen
Is Sacrament for beauty-loving eyes.