And What A Congress Of Stinks!- Roots

A Mind Too Active Is No Mind At All.

I'm Sure I've Been A Toad, One Time Or Another. With Bats, Weasels, Worms...i Rejoice In The Kinship. Even The Caterpillar I Can Love, And The Various Vermin.

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

Over Every Mountain There Is A Path, Although It May Not Be Seen From The Valley.

The Fields Stretch Out In Long Unbroken Rows. We Walk Aware Of What Is Far And Close. Here Distance Is Familiar As A Friend. The Feud We Kept With Space Comes To An End.