Saint Oran told them while the West grew dim About lone islands whither he had gone, And how he saw the orchards of the dawn Lying beyond the green earth's burnished rim; Upon that golden wall walked Cherubim Whose shadows were a snow-light on the lawn, And ere their gentle wonder was withdrawn One pitying held a starry branch toward him. The cowled monks listened, and at vesper bell They left him in a quiet place to dream By garden-ways where grasses drift like fleece; But when they reached the central ivied cell, Across the altar moved the crimson gleam Of that wild fruit of flame whose taste is peace. |