Am I the heartbeat of the crimson leaf?
Can my pulsating blood in nature be
the freedom of a summer's coming grief,
or is my fate ordained in verdant see
the mired death of all untrue belief
upon the altar of concrete decree
wherein I end as alder's unborn child
within this autumn park's constructed wild?
I pray I am the spawning of the earth
upon which only giants place their feet
and as I germ within the gaping dearth
where looms the winter's unforsaking sleet
I'll breed continuance of summer's mirth
upon the prancing of my golden feet.
I feel the scarlet burning in my veins
and ask the arbor gospel flame remains.