Lift your flowers on bitter stems chickory! Lift them up out of the scorched ground! Bear no foliage but give yourself wholly to that!
Strain under them you bitter stems that no beast eats— and scorn greyness! Into the heat with them: cool! luxuriant! sky-blue! The earth cracks and is shriveled up; the wind moans piteously; the sky goes out if you should fail.
II
I saw a child with daisies for weaving into the hair tear the stems with her teeth!