Their tracks so mutable,
Their voices so alterable and wavering.

Across a fertile, green, receding field of wind,

The page so flammable,
The mind that dies so young,

And he's here among the trees with thighs the mass,
Of three men, and the years of ten or twenty,
Who transcribe for him that archaic wind,
With their soft, wise, rustle,

(Why not a new-world Homer who could explain it all in dactylic hexameter while he
Stroked his white-fibered beard and let them cheer in drunkenness for old, hairy, exiled heroes)

Neither instrument nor musician those oak bards,
Who confess to him like uncallable witnesses,

From a long, wide, numinous field of green wind.