The trees are full of life, streamlined and shapely;
their leaves are blobs and networks, rising water,
and everything is bluish green, as if
this whole scene were submerged.
The two men, shapely too, have one strong contrast:
the younger poet's arms are at his sides,
palms out, a gesture of rejection.
Virgil, however, holds both arms aloft,
not just referring to the forest but
by being treelike, even more than Dante,
he's saying, Blake insists,
We are the forest!
It is not other, it is what we are!
The trees lean in to listen and agree.