Look upon the oak tree Without that simulated courage Falsely wrung from soothing sound. The oak tree is a living prison Where the thoughts and lusts of men Dangle to the whims of winds And learn an unexpected tolerance. Seek revenge upon the tree; Dress it in capricious metaphor; Fling your costumes on its frame. Or, better still, realize That the oak tree does not Demolish the souls of men. I say that all of nature Is only the mingled womb and tomb With which an ancient illusion Perpetuates the religions that keep it alive. Before I leave the oak tree Laughter captures my lips. Newton, a dry and wavering leaf, Has fallen to the earth. FANTASY “Geography locates actual mountains, Rivers, and valleys, while critics Of literature and art Draw imaginary maps Small as the nail of an infant’s thumb. Then nouns and adjectives Are purchased and arranged To magnify and defend the size Of exquisite differences In altitude, position, and direction. Trivially vociferous, Your geographical critics Display their little maps to men Whose eyes are already convinced Or turned in another direction.” Torban, a scholar from Mars, Dropped his speech and laughed. His laugh was the sound of a mountain Emancipated by humour And cavorting over the plains. The mountain fled, but Torban remained, Made gigantic by its aftermath. For size does not reside [Illustration]