  Hill-flowers salute his feet Upon the upward slant of a path. His destination does not matter. His legs divide the spacious tragedy Of distance into the small translation Of steps, and with their aid he reaches The fraudulent temple of a pause or end. Hill-flowers, important and unprejudiced, Bow to this monster-clown. His feet, ridiculous and neat, Do not stop, for they must ape A certainty and hasten to attack Or praise fixed idols made by flesh and mind. Hill-flowers, trimly polished Devices hailing preciosity; Rumpled by the wind To scores of original caprices; Bearing the transfigured skirmish Of spiritual moods that men call color; Swiftly and unassumingly Deaf to lusts and traditions— They are not regarded By the men who walk, flat-footed, |
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