sit, unglued, making yourself caress
th'fresh cut grass.

Now you must trace the birds' wild songs
on tape, to drown th'traffics of the Dawn

methodical--You must, so forcibly,
fulfill th'Force of Nature finely through

wiry modern nerves--Too quickly now
do you resign the Laurel

to (th'blind dump) of Once's hallowed Memory

O Mensch! Something is wrong:
You are Yourself too much

and O so little of the World!