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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