To a Child Plucking Fruit

Now while your Heaven is high and golden still,

Mount to the tip of Paradise, and fill

Your pockets and your apron full of God.

(The winter of doubt will be long and hard.)

Now while your hands may heap the bin,

Pluck Saint and Host and Seraphin.

Pluck Saint and Host and Seraphin; heap high

Your basket of Miraculous. The sky

Too soon shall witness on your winter hill

The tree grown bare. Pluck faster still.

Now while the boughs are bent asunder,

Plenish your granaries with wonder.