"Lost in Translation"

In the Merrill archive class we've been discussing Agassiz's teaching technique of dumping a basket of bones on a table and leaving the students to sort them. It's similar to the type of intellectual sorting one does in a poem. (Connective links here: Brower, Whitehead, and Merrill's puzzle). But the last lines of "Lost," strike me as beautiful, whether or not we "figure out" the puzzle; the thing to notice is always beauty.

Lost, is it, buried? On more missing piece?

But nothing's lost. Or else: all is translation
And every bit of us is lost in it
(Or found--I wander through the ruin of S
Now and then, wondering at the peacefulness)
And in that loss a self-effacing tree,
Color of context, imperceptibly
Rustling with its angel, turns the waste
To shade and fiber, milk and memory.