Unwilling-willing blind to world’s bright dance,
through wildwoods of ideas I grub-like crept:
through reeking, murky reaches no wind swept
no beauty pierced, askew, with sun-forged lance;
full-coloured French and German’s stringy plants
with fibres filled my caterpillar maw;
daunted and tempted, I set out to gnaw:
Baumgarten, Fichte, Strauss and Rosenkranz.
My autumn stormed upon me; and I spun
a thick cocoon from endless, drab distress
to shut the world out. Silently and long
I waited. Till I left the chrysalis
and flit through nature now and my own song:
Your yellow swallowtail, Oh Brahman’s Sun!