Coming home was to that:
The white house in the cool grass
Membraned with shadow, the bright
Of stream that was its looking—gla
And smoke growing above the roof

One night of tempest I arose and
Along the Menai shore on dreaming
The wind was strong, and savage sw
And the waves blustered on Caerna
But on the morrow, when I passed

I have been all men known to histo
Wondering at the world and at time
I have seen evil, and the light bl
Innocent love under a spring sky.
I have been Merlin wandering in t

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

The salmon lying in the depths of
Secretly as a thought in a dark mi
Is not so old as the owl of Cwm C
Who tells her sorrow nightly on th
The ousel singing in the woods of

We’ve nothing vast to offer you, n
Except the waste of thought
Forming from mind erosion;
No canyons where the pterodactyl’s
Falls like a shadow.

The poem in the rock and
The poem in the mind
Are not one.
It was in dying
I tried to make them so.

Being unwise enough to have marrie
I never knew when she was not acti
‘I love you’ she would say; I hea
Sigh. ‘I hate you’; I could never
They were still there. She was lo

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.

Like a painting it is set before o
But less brittle, ageless; these c
Are renewed daily with variations
Of light and distance that no pain
Achieves or suggests. Then there