Passage

A poem

I WHO could not watch one hour
In the garden with a god given over again through loveliness to death,
Now look upon the broadened leaf and flower
Of actual, unmysterious spring, knowing how
Treacherous is grief, how more than evil, suffering
That blinds one to misty green along the bough.
And this betrayal too shall pass
Toward the long loyalty immortal body gives, when breath
Is no longer pain at moonlight on the grass
Or a golden tree that softly stirs shaken with
Secret rapture in the autumn rain, or Betelgeuse
Challenging winter in a burning myth.
I who could not watch an hour
In the garden with a god given over again through loveliness to death,
Looking upon the broadened leaf and flower
Of actual and mysterious spring, know now
That joy casting grief in its shadow, that joy and the loneliest suffering
Are only mist and leaves upon a Bough.