The countless vagaries of maple leaves, Elastic humbleness of flowers and weeds, The hill, a placid stoic to all creeds, They use an obvious language that deceives The subtle theories of human ears. Their tongue is motion and they scorn the rhyme And meter made by men to soothe their fears. Beneath the warm strength of each August hour They spurn cohesion and the plans of thought, With quick simplicity that seems confused Because it signals mystic whims that tower Above the thoughts and loves that men have caught: Beyond the futile words that men have used. |