The poem
The illustration is nothing to you without the application. You lack half wit. You crush all the particles down into close conformity, and then walk back and forth on them.
Sparkling chips of rock are crushed down to the level of the parent block. Were not 'impersonal judment in aesthetic matters, a metaphysical impossibility,' you
might fairly achieve it. As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive of one's attending upon you, but to question the congruence of the complement is vain, if it exists.