You are all in my heart—a wide space with many buried, black palaces, huge pale-purple windows, hills with rocks for mad shepherds, strolling flower-venders, wine-jar maidens dancing in high courtyards hushed with quilted star-light, and sometimes a slender nun walking alone through the aisles of old reveries. I have woven you into a poem, and you were drawn on by me. But when my poems are made I take my people to a far-off garden in my heart. There we sit beneathone of the shining trees and talk. There I shall give you your soul, your heart, your song—and your huge narcissus flower. And out of them make other poems, perhaps? Who knows? Come.
You are all in my heart—a wide space with many buried, black palaces, huge pale-purple windows, hills with rocks for mad shepherds, strolling flower-venders, wine-jar maidens dancing in high courtyards hushed with quilted star-light, and sometimes a slender nun walking alone through the aisles of old reveries. I have woven you into a poem, and you were drawn on by me. But when my poems are made I take my people to a far-off garden in my heart. There we sit beneathone of the shining trees and talk. There I shall give you your soul, your heart, your song—and your huge narcissus flower. And out of them make other poems, perhaps? Who knows? Come.
(He leads them away.)