That is life, he said. For even these, the giants scatter life Into the maws of death. That towering tree That for these hundred years has leafed itself, And through its leaves out of the magic air Drawn nutriment for annual girths, took root Out of an acorn which good chance preserved, While all its brother acorns cast to earth, To make trees, by a parent tree now gone, Were crushed, devoured, or strangled as they sprouted Amid thick jealous growth wherein they fell. All acorns but this one were lost. Then he reads My questioning thought and shows me yuccas, cactus Whose thick leaves in the rainless places thrive. And shows me leaves that must have rain, and roots That must have water where the river flows. And how the spirit of life, though turned or driven This way or that beyond a course begun, Cannot be stayed or quenched, but moves, conforms To soil and sun, makes roots, or thickens leaves, Or thins or re-adjusts them on the stem To fashion forth itself, produce its kind. Nor dies not, rests not, nor surrenders not, Is only changed or buried, re-appears As other forms of life. We had walked through A forest of sequoias, beeches, pines, And ancient oaks where I could see the trace Of willows, alders, ruined or devoured By the great Titans. At last We reached my hill and sat and overlooked The garden at our feet, even to the place Of tiger lilies and of asphodel, By now beneath the self-same moon, grown denser: As where the wounded surface of the shell Thickens its shimmering stuff in spiral coigns Of the shell, so was the moon above the seat Beside the Eros and the Aphrodite Sunk amid yellow daisies and deep grass. And here we sat and looked. And here my vision Was over all we saw, but not a part Of what we saw, for all we saw stood forth As foreign to myself as something touched To learn the thing it is.