By his biogenesis the lowly earthworm
So that I might make my own, Eden!
Gives unto me some rotting earth...
Strewn wild; dead in winter—frozen!
In spring be it righteous and phosphorus!
As a sparrow shook! The silver mornings, well.
Be it dead, thrust-glinting only one crocus
Be it green, splintering a Chantry of eggshell.
Then shall I displace what I find worthy!
Then feverish shall I weed and wheel my fork...
With scissoring groundswell steps, arms a mighty
The head clamped; my eyes enlarging, uncork!
Nonstop toil these boarders avenge
each nerves a slashing sense of joy.
Let the displaced sphere Stonehenge.
With a cache of seeds what, Eden?
Will become, my endless summer’s day?
Be it paradise, Babylon’s garden.
