Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe, old age flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.
There is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.
Other lands have their vitality in a few, a class, but we have it in the bulk of our people.
After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on -- have found that none of these satisfy, or permanently wear -- what remains? Nature remains.
Unseen buds, infinite, hidden well,
Under the snow and ice, under the darkness, in every square or cubic inch,
Germinal, exquisite, in delicate lace, microscopic, unborn,
Like babies in wombs, latent, folded, compact, sleeping;
Billions of billions, and trillions of trillions of them waiting,
(On earth and in the sea -- the universe -- the stars there in the heavens.)
Urging slowly, surely forward, forming endless,
And waiting ever more, forever more behind.
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard.
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