The strange fruits of consolation, where do they ripen?
In which garden, always watered and forever blessed? On which trees,
From which cups of blossom delicately stripped bare of petals? These delicacies,
Of which perhaps you may find one, in the crushed meadow grass,

Of your impoverishment. From one time to another
You are surprised at the great size of the fruit,
At your being redeemed, at the silkiness of the skin,
And that the heedlessness of the birds and the jealousy of the worms below

Has not preceded you. Are there then trees flown unto by angels?
So strangely drawn forth by concealed, slow gardeners,
Which bear them for us, without their being meant for us?

Have we never been able, we shadows, we shades,
With our rash ripening behaviour and then our wilting,
To disturb the equanimity of that calm summer?