Botanist on Alp (No.2)
The crosses on the convent roofs
Gleam sharply as the sun comes up.
What’s down below is in the past
Like last night’s crickets, far below.
And what’s above is in the past
As sure as all the angels are.
Why should the future leap the clouds
The bays of heaven, brighted, blued?
Chant, O ye faithful, in your paths
The poem of long celestial death;
For who could tolerate the earth
Without that poem, or without
An earthier one, tum, tum-ti-tum,
As of those crosses, glittering,
And merely of their glittering,
A mirror of a mere delight?