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The owl in the woods has a hollowed cry and the moth has a furry flutter – but you, my love, and me alone have the tender touch of another – Unspirited now, untenanted waste, the meadow all locked in its end; all hours are after, all pasts are done, and the future too heavy to bend – the hedgehog is haunted by dreams of the fox and the fox by the bands of men – but come, my love, with me, alone to inhabit those years again: come down, come down, between the yews to the glade where the last flowers bloom; for all colour is gone, all wonder is lost to the coal and the petrol fume; come petal the night, its amorous scent, with primrose, and jasmine, and phlox – what spirits might rise, what vapours appear when our seeds have ruined the clocks?
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