In the first canto of the final canticle,

Too conscious of too many things at once,

Our man beheld the naked, nameless dame,

Seized her and wondered: why beneath the tree

She held her hand before him in the air,

For him to see, wove round her glittering hair.

Too conscious of too many things at once,

In the first canto of the final canticle,

Her hand composed him and composed the tree.

The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha,

It held the shivering, the shaken limbs,

Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.

Her hand composed him like a hand appeared,

Of an impersonal gesture, a stranger’s hand.

He was too conscious of too many things

In the first canto of the final canticle.

Her hand took his and drew him near to her.

Her hair fell on him and the mi-bird flew

To the ruddier bushes at the garden’s end.

Of her, of her alone, at last he knew

And lay beside her underneath the tree.