from Go Spell Death Backwards

I need not sing the song, for there thou art,
embroiderer of the fields' warm tapestries;
and of thy shadow, let me sing the part
of the jewelled constellation of the dell,
and let me live where gold its glory fell:
gold of the daffodil, gold of the dandy,
the gold-plated sop and the sunned tiger-lily;
the sower mourned triumphally as well,
for death was barren as the seed,
but in the time's renewing,
sifts the harvest from the weed;
and if indeed the cask was her undoing,
the buried bundle bursts the fields with mead.

Of the hills' warm delirium of color I sing,
and of the rose-swaddled garmenting
of winter's once austere and craven yields.
As like the mysterious Spirit of heaven,
I knew not whence these sweet odors were riven
from their palatial bowers fragrant with Eden,
an imagined garden of sense.
And while I lapsed in dolor of the soul,
the forgotten paradise clasped at the mind,
and this earth's moldering temples were shaken
remembering the ancient riddle of earth,
a transient and most majestic mirth,
and sense renewed the pattern left behind.

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