My soul, beyond distant death

your image I see like this:

a provincial naturalist,

an eccentric lost in paradise.

There, in a glade, a wild angel slumbers,

a semi-pavonian creature.

Poke at it curiously

with your green umbrella,

speculating how, first of all,

you will write a paper on it,

then—But there are no learned journals,

nor any readers in paradise!

And there you stand, not yet believing

your wordless woe.

About that blue somnolent animal

whom will you tell, whom?

Where is the world and the labeled roses,

the museum and the stuffed birds?

And you look and look through your tears

at those unnamable wings.