Now I rest my head on the satyr's carved chest，

    The hollow where the heart would have been， if sandstone

    Had a heart， if a headless goat man could have a heart.

    His neck rises to a dull point， points upward

    To something long gone， elusive¹， and at his feet

    The small flowers swarm²， earnest and sweet， a clamor

    Of white， a clamor of blue， and black the sweating soil

    They breed in……If I sit without moving， how quickly

    Things change， birds turning tricks in the trees，

    Colorless birds and those with color， the wind fingering

    The twigs³， and the furred creatures doing whatever

    Furred creatures do. So， and so.  There is the smell of fruit

    And the smell of wet coins. There is the sound of a bird

    Crying， and the sound of water that does not move……

    If I pick the dead iris⁴？  If I wave it above me

    Like a flag， a blazoned⁵ flag？  My fanfare⁶？ Little fare

    with which I buy my way， making things brave？ The way

    Now I bend over and with my foot turn up a stone，

    And there they are： the armies of pale creatures who

    Without cease or doubt sew the sweet sad earth.