1440

The square root of minus one

Upon the flecked blue grass

As if the leaves had wings to angle

Their yellow selves along the unreal axis.

By the autumn tree our terminus we wonder

At the once-green:

The jetsam of chance,

Or fine vortical solution?

No: it is the freemasonry of the unthinking,

With sister truth arrayed,

Beyond an art's arraignment;

What beauty's beheld in this field

Needs no beholder.