The young girl stood beside me. br I Saw not what her young eyes could see: br - A light, she said, not of the sky br Lives somewhere in the Orange Tree. br br - Is it, I said, of east or west? br The heartbeat of a luminous boy br Who with his faltering flute confessed br Only the edges of his joy? br br Was he, I said, borne to the blue br In a mad escapade of Spring br Ere he could make a fond adieu br To his love in the blossoming? br br - Listen! the young girl said. There calls br No voice, no music beats on me; br But it is almost sound: it falls br This evening on the Orange Tree. br br - Does he, I said, so fear the Spring br Ere the white sap too far can climb? br See in the full gold evening br All happenings of the olden time? br br Is he so goaded by the green? br Does the compulsion of the dew br Make him unknowable but keen br Asking with beauty of the blue? br br - Listen! the young girl said. For all br Your hapless talk you fail to see br There is a light, a step, a call br This evening on the Orange Tree. br br - Is it, 1 said, a waste of love br Imperishably old in pain, br Moving as an affrighted dove br Under the sunlight or the rain? br br Is it a fluttering heart that gave br Too willingly and was reviled? br Is it the stammering at a grave, br The last word of a little child? br br - Silence! the young girl said. Oh, why, br Why will you talk to weary me? br Plague me no longer now, for I br Am listening like the Orange Tree.