All plants grow here; the most minute,
  Glowing from turf, is in its place.
  The constant vision of the race:
Lawned orchard deep with flower and fruit.
   
So bright, that some who see it near,
  Think there is lapis on the stems,
  And think green, blue, and crimson gems
Hang from the vines and briars here.

They follow path to path in wonder
  Through the intense undazzling light.
  Nowhere does blossom flare so white!
Nowhere so black is earthmould under!

It goes, though it may come again.
  But if at last they try to tell,
  They search for trope or parallel,
And cannot, after all, explain.

Where my foot rests, I hear the creak
  From generations of my kin,
  Layer on layer, pressed leaf-thin.
They merely are. They cannot speak.

This was the garden's place of birth:
  I trace it downward from my mind,
  Through breast and calf I feel it vined,
And rooted in the death-rich earth.