You who lie on your backs in the sun, you roots,
You roses among others who take the rain
Into you, vegetables, listen—the salt stone
That the sea divulges does not fructify.
It sits by itself. It is sufficient. But you—
Who was your great-grandfather or your mother’s mother?
One of those mild evenings when you think
Spring is to-morrow and you can smell the earth
Smouldering under wet leaves and there’s still
A little light left over the pine-tree top
And you stand listening—
So she closed the gate
16
