The leaf in its little inn is more
        Radical than the greatest prophet,
Opening its green door
        To the traveller in his coat of blue.

The leaf is feminine, letting
        The light
Enter to strike for the root
        In the dark;

And the world's made new
        In the forge of its cells that fangs
Are born of, and wild looks,
        And kisses; as quietly

The leaf makes love
        To the long rays
Exuberantly dying.
        The world is the leaf's thrawn child.

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