poem by anne carson

And Reason Remains Undaunted
Searching for things sublime I walked up into the muddy
windy big hills
behind the town where trees riot according to their own laws
and
one may
observe so many methods of moving green—under, over,
around, across,
up theback, higher, fanning, condensing, rifled, flat in the
eyes, as if
pacing a

cell, like a litter of grand objects, minutely, absorbed, one leaf
at a time,
ocean-furious, nettle-streaked, roping along, unmowed, fresh
out of pools,

clear as Babel,

such a tower, scattered through the heart, green in the strong
sense, dart-
shook, crownly, carrying the secrets of its own heightening on

up, juster than a shot, gloomier than Milton or even his king
of terrors,
idol in its dark parts, as a word coined to mean “storm” (of
love) or

“waving lines”

(architectural), scorned, clean, with blazing nostrils, not a
servant, not
rapid, rapid.

— Anne Carson

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