We live in our own world,
A world that is too small
For you to stoop and enter
Even on hands and knees,
The adult subterfuge.

She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage

It is a matter of a black cat
On a bare cliff top in March
Whose eyes anticipate
The gorse petals;
The formal equation of

The old man comes out on the hill
and looks down to recall earlier d
in the valley. He sees the stream
the church stand, hears the litter
children’s voices. A chill in the

I want you to know how it was,
whether the Cross grinds into dust
under men’s wheels or shines brigh
as a monument to a new era.
There was a church and one man

Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets
Accompaniment to the black kettle’

I have this that I must do
One day: overdraw on my balance
Of air, and breaking the surface
Of water go down into the green
Darkness to search for the door

Hers is the clean apron, good for
Or lamp to embroider, as we talk s
In the long kitchen, while the whi
Turns to pastry in the great oven,
Sweetly and surely as hay making

I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
of great price, the one field that

It is calm.
It is as though
we lived in a garden
that had not yet arrived
at the knowledge of