Who here’s afraid to gawk at lilacs?

Who won’t stand up and praise the moon?

Who doubts that skies still ache for skylarks

And waves are lace upon the dune?

But flowering grave-dust, flowerlike snow-dust,

But tinkling dew, but fun of hay,

But soothing buzz and scent of sawdust

Have all been seen, been said—we say.

BANALITY, our saint, our silly:

The sun’s your adverb, named ‘Again’;

You wake us with it willy-nilly

And westward wait to tuck us in.

We, nurse, are flouted when we flout you.

Even to shock you is cliché.

O inescapable and dowdy!

O gold uniqueness every day!

Who’s new enough, most now, most youngest

Enough to eye you most again?

Who’ll love the rose that love wore longest,

Yet say it fresher than brief rain?

I’ll see. I’ll say. I’ll find the word.

All earth must lilt, then, willy-nilly

And vibrate one rich triple-chord

Of August, wine, and waterlily.