He shouts through Peggy's garden
At the Countess Maurinais;
And heckles Henri Martin
As I stroll conif’rous way.
I hear him in the forest,
Though the Mill Creek strikes him dumb;
The tulipfera highest,
Cannot escape his awful hum.
His monologic discourse
Goads the ornamental pines;
I flee his mutt’rings hoarse
Among the restaurant’s fine wines.
I pause beside a lilac,
Through ancient cherries having stirred;
For all his rantings manic,
I know I have not caught a word.
I think I hear “modernity."
Or “planning that’s done wrong."
But he says in reality:
“This world, it is already gone.”