In a Garden

IN A GARDEN
Here, where iris blades are fine,
Blazed the swords of Antonine—
They are bits of greenish bronze,
Stiller than the plaques of leaves Hanging from plum-covered eaves When noon is quiet as a bonze. . . .
A gap in thinking blackens out The garden and the trees about,
Illimitable years have sped And the same June is overhead,
And irises as keen as swords Drip gouts of silver on the swards;
Some other muses, “Where they shine,
Blazed the swords of Antonine,”
And still the trees in dripping lights Hang stony-green as stalactites,
And air’s a cavern, multiplying To senseless echoes the same crying.
Is there no more than blooming, dying,
Infinitely multiplying,
And still no voice at all replying? Yes, you lead us, garden-gate, To bitter knowledge of our fate,
As in the first of Edens: we Bite hard upon our destiny,
And, in digesting it, are great: He who in Nothing has immersed His ardent spirit knows the worst,
Is no more fevered and accurst;
His steady disillusioned eyes Desire no painless Paradise;
The very marvel that he is,
To grapple with his destinies,
Outweighs all other mysteries.