The whole of appearance is a toy. For this, The dove in the belly builds his nest and coos, Selah, tempestuous bird. How is it that The rivers shine and hold their mirrors up, Like excellence collecting excellence? How is it that the wooden trees stand up And live and heap their panniers of green And hold them round the sultry day? Why should These mountains being high be, also, bright,
Fetched up with snow that never falls to earth? And this great esplanade of corn, miles wide, Is something wished for made effectual And something more. And the people in costumes, Though poor, though raggeder than ruin, have that Within them right for terraces—oh, brave salut! Deep dove, placate you in your hiddenness.