Prospero dowered his daughter here with this island:
where everything, million-pinned redwood, hummingbird,
malachite holly leaf, sweet honeysuckle,
elbowed and feathery ridges, thistledown
going wherever it wants to go, fog in the vales,
everything presses itself on the sight like a dream,
manifold, bright, just as the vision expected.
The hills of wild rye rise up, like cumulus, golden
over your brow, and below, like a chasm, the long
larch spears reach up to your feet.
But on this island Prospero's daughter died;
by her own hand she canceled these horizons.
Ask her whatever question you will, she burns
out of the blue sky, terrible, mute.