Young men go walking in the woods,

Hunting for the great ornament,

The pediment of appearance.

They hunt for a form which by its form alone,

Without diamond—blazons or flashing or

Chains of circumstance,

By its form alone, by being right,

By being high, is the stone

For which they are looking:

The savage transparence. They go crying

The world is myself, life is myself,

Breathing as if they breathed themselves,

Full of their ugly lord,

Speaking the phrases that follow the sight

Of this essential omament

In the woods, in this full-blown May,

The months of understanding. The pediment

Lifts up its heavy scowl before them.