What does the storm say? What the trees wish,
If they can manage to wish it. I am the king of the dead,
Says the hero strongly to his won field.
And it’s true, too. Nobody hears him.
And wisdom has sorts—ones even the intelligent
Can understand if they wish; love is the limit that love
Approaches and approaches. And the skinny digger
Picks up among the caves the partial shard
She loves better than all our brilliance. On it the leopard,
In ochre and not foreshortened, manages quietly
After its own millenia, the quick
Stare of the dead one, in that dawn, among its deer.
Remember, each cupful of air has its vector,
And the backward seedling can always say:
It may be so; and I certainly vary;
And it’s you who’re taking the great wind’s way—
And it knows what it says will always be taken
As the simple answer of the helpless love
Of the dwarfs in the forest for the glittering virgin
Who is dying and glass on her marvelous bier.
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