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.

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