Your mountain is robed in sombre rifle green
And one of its greener fields is suddenly
Black with rooks. The stream too seems
To be gone out of town, the lamp sulky
In the dead zone around the river’s mouth.

Rainwater captures a much more drive-by
World; we pretend to acknowledge
That we fall short of its perfection,
Noting the delicate colouring of the lark,
Her half-shadowed ear and turned neck.

It is curious how it is done at once,
Your eyes are darkened wholly to dry
Up the green from the field. The dozing
Cupids on the clock lean a little back-
Wards, making a shrine of your bed

Which flames in the thinnest of threads, is blue fire
That cannot be painted. Nothing more earthly
Than you, pose as the Southwest wind
Steering the flower car, reading the church,
While Paradise moves inside us its narrow

Wicket gate and watchful porter.
Your last control of vision was sunprints
Of leaves, from two embrowned chestnut trees,
All opened ground for one who has
Just finished her first primrose.