And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.
I think of the nestling fallen into the deep grass, the turtle gasping in the dusty rubble of the highway, the paralytic stunned in the tub, and the water rising,— All things innocent, hapless, forsaken.
The indignity of it! - With everything blooming above me, Lilies, pale-pink cyclamen, roses, Whole fields lovely and inviolate,- Me down in the fetor of weeds, Crawling on all fours, Alive, in a slippery grave.
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, in my veins, in my bones I feel it,— the small waters seeping upward, the tight grains parting at last.
I wake to sleep and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go... Great Nature has another thing to do to you and me, so take the lively air, and, lovely, learn by going where to go.