III

Far let the voices of the mad wild birds be calling me, I will abide in this forest of pines. When the wind blows Battling through the forest,

I hear it distantly, The crash of a perpetual sea. When the rain falls, I watch silver spears slanting downwards

From pale river-pools of sky, Enclosed in dark fronds. When the sun shines, I weave together distant branches till they enclose mighty circles,

I sway to the movement of hooded summits, I swim leisurely in deep blue seas of air. I hug the smooth bark of stately red pillars And with cones carefully scattered

I mark the progression of dark dial-shadows Flung diagonally downwards through the afternoon. This turf is not like turf: It is a smooth dry carpet of velvet,

Embroidered with brown patterns of needles and cones. These trees are not like trees: They are innumerable feathery pagoda-umbrellas, Stiffly ungracious to the wind,

Teetering on red-lacquered stems. In the evening I listen to the winds’ lisping, While the conflagrations of the sunset flicker and clash behind me, Flamboyant crenellations of glory amid the charred ebony boles.

In the night the fiery nightingales Shall clash and trill through the silence: Like the voices of mermaids crying From the sea.

Long ago has the moon whelmed this uncompleted temple. Stars swim like gold fish far above the black arches. Far let the timid feet of dawn fly to catch me: I will abide in this forest of pines:

For I have unveiled naked beauty, And the things that she whispered to me in the darkness, Are buried deep in my heart. Now let the black tops of the pine-trees break like a spent wave,

Against the grey sky: These are tombs and memorials and temples and altars sun-kindled for me.