Classic Poem

Wind Gardens

Where now
are time and space,
frailer than clove-pinks,
or sprays of dittany,
or citron-flowers or myrrh
from the smooth sides of Erymanthus.

Rigid and heavy,
the three dimensions press against us.
But what of a fourth?
Can myrrh-hyacinths blossom within it,
or violets with bird-foot roots;
can nereids lose themselves
in its watery forests,
can wood-daemons splash through a surf
of silver saxifrage
and dogwood petals?

Here is no beauty.
There is no scent of fruit
nor sound of broken music,
sharp and astringent,
in this place.
For this light,
colder than frozen marble,
thin and constricted,
is light without heat.

O fire, descend on us,
cut apart these theories;
shower us with breath of pine
and freesia buds.English