Around our poles and posts
our gates and gardens —
...
Dog running through wheat
as if amid the shouts
of my whole — swift — childhood
...
From that little wood,
finally,
forever or for a long time,
...
The quietness
where the child is- seems uneven
...
XIX
And in the fog
the green oak
...
a smouldering
(from the paper
into the world)—
...
and so here behind the drawn Yellow
I sleep and 'sleep feet—I say—and sleep arms'
...
punched through—not as into sunlight
but into the light-of-the-Idea
...