a walk in the garden through what was and never will be

Through the garden gates, there gapes the view

Of poplars papering the pallid air

With the exhum'd light of the leaves-streak'd blue,

that brings him what doubts he once was the heir

When questioned he the membrane of the hush

That covert saplings, bubbling through the bark,

strewed with dew blushed by the singing of the thrush,

To taper in his palm the extensive arc

Of toils and spoils confound in existence,

that as a concise crate they might be laid 

To round the frown of the twigs' pricking lance

and form the crown of a barricade

Which grafted turrets, by highs fortified,

On nooks and vines entwined defend his ease;

or with the colours by th'heat purified

purl in a shell the choir the coral reef frees.

but Never did the posture of the hedges

Impress his mind with the benign composure

that weathered cores and contours for the pledges

marrying withering with seasonal disclosure.

The lean grass forward bent t' allot his feet

And borrowed from his sinews the frail peals

That on the meadow's silken silver sheet

a coiling fosse scourged -like the snake's, that steals

Through the grove to poison the cool shade-, soon

Eclipsed below the idle regaling

of the rebirth the shruggèd swishs attune

on the bruised blades, their kindling fire inhaling,

to counterpoise opposeless distances,

that thoughts deploy on tumultuous crests,

far from the gleams of mortal instances,-

far-, to the immaterial sight that wrests

Weak urns to bed what love in specks there pours.

How could the pedestal that skirts the mountains,

that girts the pines with the cloud's flaming spores,

bless the mind with words that taste the snowy fountains? 

Or the vines sustaining the most gnarled of oaks,

knit the veil that finally has slain decay,

and deck the parch'd tongues with the golden that invokes

The sun's striped splendour through the bees' array?

Now, as he follows the Daedalian hues

That blur each bower with the dandelions'

Seedling woof of airborne jewels, he construes

Himself always preceded by the visions

It is not in his power to occlude;

but just to be by it undone, and then,

redone, again, in the blithe plenitude

Of foreign quietness, that's rendered vain

as he steals in, inspired to match the sea

of lymph, that the roots banned from his trespass,

With the circling tendrils of a ringing pleas

to stride in mutual tide the giddy mass

that through the bulks by th' ebbing breasted, gleans

The primaeval heaves of the creative sieve

from which all that lives, as its tribute, weans.

Therein he lingers, infinitely pensíve,

Lulled by the tugs of wrestling reveries

That tease to him their tenderest of current

that soils embosses with the spiders' ease

to tread on the purl'd eyes the rinds of crescent

Sails, by the dove's tail with rainbow light imbued,

where he pursues his thoughts to the imageless

Den of the daimon by its own spawn wooed,

where's merged the objects' sere mete with the rangeless

Aether orbiting above th' eroded weights.

'as if an octopus' he ruminates,

While leaving longingly the garden gates,

'would clutch the flogged rock where the sea's rage abates,

with tentacles that the raw elements

Bind to the phantom-teeming of their sensing,

exceeding far the waves' conched ornaments 

That th'undertow inlay with their enticing.'