DECADENT CRY[A]

Hill-flowers salute his feet Upon the upward slant of a path. His destination does not matter. His legs divide the spacious tragedy Of distance into the small translation Of steps, and with their aid he reaches The fraudulent temple of a pause or end. Hill-flowers, important and unprejudiced, Bow to this monster-clown. His feet, ridiculous and neat, Do not stop, for they must ape A certainty and hasten to attack Or praise fixed idols made by flesh and mind. Hill-flowers, trimly polished Devices hailing preciosity; Rumpled by the wind To scores of original caprices; Bearing the transfigured skirmish Of spiritual moods that men call color; Swiftly and unassumingly Deaf to lusts and traditions— They are not regarded By the men who walk, flat-footed, Or with scholarly exactitude, In chase of an ardent chicanery Known as flesh, and elderly Quibbles of mind and emotion. Only an intellect clad in sprightly chiffon Can spy the importance of flowers on a hill.