Well roofed pleasant little hut,
screened from winds:
That’s all I need. Foursquare
The image of the Buddha in my brain,
Drawing from the countryside the verdant
Fantasm of conception, saying:
“We green imageries of bush & tree,
Like you, have risen from a mystery,
And the mystery is fantastic,
Unreal, illusion, and sane,
And strange – It is; When ye
Are not born, thou never showest;
When thou art born thou showest,
Thou showest emeralds and pine trees
And thou showest, and if not born
Thou showest naught in white
Dazzling buried in mindless obscure sea
That strange eternity devises to befool,
Befoul and play unfair with Mag
The worshipper and worrier, Man,
Mag, Mad,
it’s all green trees, men
And dogs of toothbone:
All shine in the dust,
All the same Novice Scotia.”