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.