Reflex of the flower, which bit by bit opens
The anenome to its meadow morning,
Till the clamouring heaven showers into its midst
Its vast polyphony of light,

This unending acceptation by you, stretched
In the motionless star of the flower,
Sometimes so overcome with fullness
That the sunset which beckons to repose

Scarcely can restore to you your widely sprung
Petals’ edges: You, the resolve and the
Very strength of how many worlds?

We of Violence, we endure longer,
But when, - in which of all our lives, -
Shall we be endlessly open and receivers?