yet in ignorance, hath we fell,
to that darkness, that stupor hell,
where no Art from Heart does swell,
yet Artifice is known so well ...
for all of them, may I say,
the wounded mind that had its day,
can be as supple as sapling tree,
if they give their Heart to Mystic sea...
a pausing plaint of passing into the wound inside,
that reasonable doubt, of Jekyll and Hyde,
for which we each, are humbled victim,
and from which we arise, as The Green Man...
His language of the Birds, his secular tongue,
and silence his noble one,
arise from living soul within his HeArt,
and washes simple throughout his Art...
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