.
On branch of learning tree
Her red hair— roping me,
My arms arrested, twisting
In smoke of dusty morning
And then to walk in joys field
With caved heart so revealed,
A great book of psalms grew
The fruit of laid truths anew,
Words, one working saviour,
Cannot free poor dull knaves
Burning in such simple sun,
What storied fables we sung,
My eyes setting, made blind
O, let free— nailed on high,
Dead alive in my birthrights
Topped off parables of light.