Like the green rains the soils subsumed
in whose coal-fires the winter frosts
could never strangle, nor snow ever
bereave to dense fruitlessness:
sabres they are now, that know their own line
in the spectrum: not derived, but perforce!
They come out of their bulbs not mingling
with awareness, but folds of the tents of the universe!
The green aphid drops of the days
have here derived a new representation:
'Look!' They cry, 'time also regenerates:
'Where the aged bulb, and last year's drooping flower?'
And in the midst of us, the opening grave
that proclaims a resurrection, a fable no more.