My garden is the wild
  Sea of the grass. Her garden
Shelters between walls.
  The tide could break in;
  I should be sorry for this.
 
There is peace there of a kind,
  Though not the deep peace
Of wild places. Her care
  For green life has enabled
  The weak things to grow.
 
Despite my first love,
  I take sometimes her hand,
Following straight paths
  Between flowers, the nostril
  Clogged with their thick scent.
 
The old softness of lawns
  Persuading the slow foot
Leads to defection; the silence
  Holds with its gloved hand
  The wild hawk of the mind.
 
But not for long, windows,
  Opening in the trees
Call the mind back
  To its true eyrie; I stoop
  Here only in play.

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