The Sycamore Grove

(Cutting imagery from my Chapter One, I couldn't bear it all to go completely to waste.)


They bow in welcome

As they always did

And will;

But really we must bow to they,

For they are sovereigns themselves:

Twelve hundred

Giant white statues,

Kings and queens,

With cloaks of verdure

And crowns of sunshine,

Not motivated by love or power or money,

And all those other fixations

Which stir and pervert men

And women alike.


We return to a life

We left just before our conception.

Gone are wars already lost,

Trophies won;

We fall back through

The centuries to our ancestors,

Who regarded these trees

With awe and wonder,

And felt no shame for their weakness,

Though now we who appreciate nature

Are primitive,

And those who do not are


Or else wilfully ignorant.



Words are redundant

Amidst such simplicity.


Throngs of glowing leaves

Murmur from the canopy,

Burdened not, unless by greenness,

Though ere the end of the year

They will be heavy with frost-crystals

And the rosy rings of winter berries:

Blood on snow.

Birdsong gushes from a divine source

Invisible to the mortal eye,

Liberally blending

With the susurrus of the late spring breeze

As it rustles between the branches;

A rhythm for the tread

Of roving feet.



By our blind meandering

Is this place.

How many wandering minds

Must have passed

Between these burnished trunks,

Yet no footsteps lie

Imprinted in the dirt.

Growing grass

Is never flattened

For many hours;

It is too eager

To turn toward the sunshine.


Welcome wordless nature.

Let it expel

Vexations and vacillations

From our consciousness.

Nature will never refuse

To infuse

The spirits of the willing;

And the grove-floor lends

Angels’ wings to mortal feet.

Up and up and up

Exhilaration lifts…

To the moon,


Splendid and watchful

And clad in green.

The End

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