poem, the heaped sum of harvest

from the fountain of words I found the shapes of waves,
I found the shapes of fronds, the shapes of spring and autumn.
within the fountain of words I found the colours of the world's passage;
in black and white's contrast alone, the conscious world passes before me.
I have endowed it with feels of touch, as I sense stirrings in my flesh and my bone.
And there is a universe of truth undrawn from the fountain of words-- springing clear showers shining with golden darkness,
bringing with it the ominous flotsams from upstream,
the shining fragments of visions… 
I see the shape of the water and the shape of land; I see the heaven expand before me.
I found colours; the contrast of the shadows and the Sun only bring both to sight's occlusion…
I touched the water as I struggle for breath within the flow of fountain,
above it my head of cloudy conscience struggles for breath.
I found the shapes of fronds, the shapes of spring and autumn,
the shape of blooming colours, the fruited hues, and
the shape of waves that cradled them; I was almost was taken breathless…
but still I struggle for air…I was struggling, then disappointed freely.
For all the gifts of reflection and of literature a man possesses,
he may see shapes, colours, and feel his emotion was touched,
but where is the drifting odour, unbelonging to his heart?
O, date fronds, lambent seas of Aegea
the common eastern flowers of names, forgotten or confused 
dripping crystal fountain of Iceland, honeyed wine,
manna and emmer bread of Egypt.
dainty meat from the fanged Sooty Sea-Beast.
the signums of epoch's begetting from the star-lit ocean,
and the sighs of the aeon's end in land and the firmament's dusky gloam.
All those sights that touch me and dye my vision---I ask,
in me thus have ye liberated yourself, unleased and possess meaning,
but whereto has gone the linked scent, She that should've accompanied your coming?
the scroll of eternal life unfurls itself before me,
a darkly enveloping flag of full-flowered vapours,
lightning scintillates, wind-tossed it was upon the abyssal seas.
the salt of rushing winds stimulates me; 
but as black and white visions of world's phantasmagoria pass by,
in salt's accumulation by currents, I found no trace of that glamorous scent.
And yet if in a green field of the sunny land,
let me I press asphodel or narcissus to my nose,
even as I conjure the mind's image, dwelling on it, or penning down on the notebook with conscience
I found only what once dwellt and lingered there, the heaped sum of harvest; the beautiful fragrance that was collected,
in one moment before, is now no more.