Oh wild wayside pilgrims, whose duty is pleasure— Your faces all gleaming and grinning, they sing! Royally fitted with robes and with rings, Light-spun along hillsides in draped rivulets, your petals sway gem-like in meek coronets.
What field did you delve in to raise up such treasure as roots that find purchase in heavenly soil? Peasants, you gesture all gracious mid-toil, as a Wind from a World without End kisses necks each queenly in green leaf and sighed minuets.
You humbly await now with palms all upturned, small beggars day-met by the march of the sun who rains golden crumbs to transmute every seed that lingers unworried—hid blooms faith has dressed; passed by, beatific, mown down and yet blessed.