He has slipped
Into
The orchards of the spirit
And the earliest one
Under the Colombian sky

Saw him soil-sunk
Digging ihe gospel of work
Grounding himself
In the loam of elemental toil.
Not long

This unkempt grace of strength
was his;
For in odd houses of labour
His chore-soused arms
Printed with their moving fingers

The mighty manual of man.
Then after a spell
Of Marx-drugged trancing
He exploded
Into downright doctrine

Gearing his atoms
To fuse with the heave
Of their fire
A creedless cup of plenitude,
Sailing soon

Into mystic skies
And dragging in pain
A subcontinent
Of tightening chain
He played

The fiercest hide-and-seek
With 
The Empire's White Devil
And emerged
Bruised and revolution jilted

With
All his volcanoes
Blotted out.
By widest horizons of tranquility
And

When self-thwarting hands
Of lesser beings
Struck at the roots of life,
He beamed
Into a dynamo of pulses

Packing the house
With the noblest voltage
Of his living glow.