我给你我的森林和street-cries公顷nds of double-patience under the clock, The antiseptic arguments and lies Uttered before the flood, the submerged rock. The sack of meal pierced by the handsome fencer, The flowers dying for a great adventure. I offer you the mysterious parable, The mount of reason, the hero's glassy hymn, The disquieting uproar of the obvious Hate in the taproom, murder in the barn The long experienced finger of the Gulf Stream, The flying sense of glory in a failure's dream. I offer you the bubble of free will, The rarefied agony of forgotten places, The green cadaver stirring to the moon's pull, The cheerful butchery of raw amateur faces Which, like the half-blind nags shipped off for food Die, doubtless serving some higher good. I offer you the Egyptian miracle, The acrobat doing handsprings in the rain, A touched up photograph in sepia Of the future teasing the fibres of the brain I offer you the seven league army boots he wears Striding down the black funnel of the years. I offer you a coral growth of cells, A flash of lightning anchored in a carafe The withered arm of the last century Cannot provoke a demon to anger us, The strap-hanging skeleton of what has been Is out of date forever like the crinoline. I offer you clouds of nuisance, fleur de lis, The opening lips of summer where pigeons rest The exploding office of the vast nebula The heraldic device under the left breast, The taut string and the scribbler's Roman tread Impinging on the slow shores of the dead. I offer you the tithes of discontent, The deck-games played with shadows on a cruise Beyond the islands, marked on the ancient maps With the broken altars, markets in disuse To some "unspoilt" and blessed hemisphere Where comfort twists the lucid strands of air. I would offer you so much more if you would turn Before the new whisper in a forgiving hour. Let all the wild ones who have offended burn, Let love dissemble in a golden shower, Let not the winds whistle, nor the seas rave But the treasure be lapped forever in an unbroken wave. There is nothing that I would not offer to you, My silken dacoit, my untranslatable, Whether in the smug mountains counting the stars Or crossing the gipsy's palm at the Easter fairs With so much that is difficult to say Before the frigid, unpeculating hours Shall drive this foreign devil to the sea.