I would lose my aching identity in the cool, forgotten forest of lost words, and lie beneath their interchanging boughs; while lapping phrases, like seeking herds, nibble at the greenery of my mind.
The soothing, thick antiquity of ripened and deep-mellowed beauty, lingers here in this far pasturage, and blooms into a cherished autumn, fruity with the muttered musings of long-dismembered afternoons.
The speaker wants to disappear, gently, into language itself. She is tired of her "aching identity," the burden of being herself, and imagines escaping into a "forgotten forest of lost words," where old, half-remembered phrasing hangs overhead like branches. The central image is pastoral: phrases move like herds, nibbling at the "greenery" of her mind, so that thinking becomes something slow, soft, and grazing rather than strained.
The second stanza lingers on the richness of this place. Its beauty is old and mellow, like fruit ripened into autumn, and it seems to hold the "muttered musings" of afternoons that are long gone. The word "dismembered" is a quiet jolt, hinting that those days survive only in pieces.
The mood is dreamy, restful, and a little wistful. Nothing happens; the poem simply drifts, offering words as a refuge from the self and a pasture where memory can quietly feed.