Transitional Poem
27
Since my materialHas chosen to rebel,It were most politic—Ere I also fall sick—To escape this Eden.Indeed there has been no peaceFor any gardenOr for any treesSince Priapus died,And lust can no more rideOver self-love and pride.
Leave Eden to the brutes:For he who lets his sapRun downward to the rootsWill wither at the topAnd wear fool's-cap.I am no English lawnTo build a smooth traditionOut of Time's recessionAnd centuries of dew . . .Adam must subdueThe indestructible serpent,Outstaring it: contentIf he can transplantOne slip from paradiseInto his own eyes.
