That's just the old Rousseau pieces in this poem, I bet.
I'll read you a couple of other short poems.
One of them over there, another one over here.
This one is called the Music of Driftwood,
and I don't know quite what it means, but it's about poetry.
The music of driftwood?
Yes, it comes from deep water and floats
with the wind in the foam, and is beached and bleached.
Lying still for a movement or two,
then floating farther to enter the mind's many chambers,
as Wagner perhaps or Bach, or whatever.
It changes, but always I like it.
I think, I hope without arrogance, it
is the music of poetry.
True to the temper and pulse of each flute-like, bassoon-like
image that pads or flutters within in the midnight recesses,
yet true to its own poor selfless self,
bare, bearing, from way, way over
yonder its theme of old blossomings.
Temples in orchards, rites, supplications, art.