To the magnificence of all this grubby ardor
And the quibbling for even more when
--all complaints lying soft at the foot of the moon,
We know we have saved nothing
But have plenty in our worn socks
And we are fine.
To that we are despite our conservative bent
Romantics stirred by like-minded provocations--
If not always by similar tastes.
And to the Greenness in living things pitched
Wild into being and at their most;
It is a rasp on our being, and
If we are not derelict, misspending that then
We are misspending it all.
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