The Hermitage At The Center

The leaves on the macadam make a noise--
How soft the grass on which the desired
Reclines in the temperature of heaven--


Like tales that were told the day before yesterday--
Sleek in a natural nakedness,
She attends the tintinnabula


And the wind sways like a great thing tottering--
Of birds called up by more than the sun,

Birds of more wit, that substitute--

Which suddenly is all dissolved and gone--

Their intelligible twittering
For unintelligible thought.


And yet this end and this beginning are one,
And
one last look at the ducks is a look
At lucent children round her in a ring.