The Song at the Garden Wall

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
I have seen much of the natural light
At times witnessed birds in autumnal flight
Their great host, as though in the north
Hades had its souls all spewed forth
Or against the sky's changing rays
Many at once gave up their days
And flew full course into the arms of God
A stream the workaday would call odd
If they saw it, or would deign to recall
And condescend to my earthy mind at all
Rake, rake, rake, in the soft loam dirt
A pleasure too human for a word so curt
To plant and dig is a tiresome chore
Like man's spirit, in a silent war
So the bowstring must have its slack
Here it finds rest in the slow attack
The turned up dirt shows warm and dark
Manure and mulch in furrowed mark
And in Sunday we may have our rest
In garden dirt, such patterns best
Describe the contemplative soul
Evoke the cup that is overfull
In its twofold of gaze and sight
Its two arms for wrong and right
Redundant all for mercy's sake
And all this time, the moving rake
Makes me think such radical thought
To square the circle of is and ought
Or perhaps my blood must boil in rage
The Saxon within cannot outstage
The Modern made aboriginal
But for a minute both feel the call
And in the sky the clouds catch fire
Rose-bright linings like filament wire
If to see beyond this city here
If for a moment, vision is clear
And the blue and red and green and gold
Are something many-chambered and old
But disappear as a waking dream
And like the souls' unrelenting stream
Speak in figures of what shall be
Not late but soon, and suddenly.

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