17
Where, in what ever-blissfully watered gardens, on what
branches, out of what tenderly un-petaled flower cups,
do the exotic fruits of consolation ripen? These exquisite
fruits, which sometimes lie there in the trampled
meadow of your losses. Each time you come upon one,
you marvel at the size of the fruit, at its perfect fullness,
at the tenderness of its skin, at how it has escaped
the wantonness of the bird and the jealousy
of the worm below. Are there trees, then, visited by angels,
and so strangely tended by slow occult gardeners
that they bear for us without being ours?
Have we never been able, we shadows and phantoms,
as we go on prematurely ripening and then withering again,
to disturb the equanimity of these serene summers?