Another old poem, from "Way Stations".


Now and England


The wind for France
blusters and laughs.
Green hills, gathered
and chaste, gleam
over the humped sediment.

And bowmen will carry the day.
Silence an awkward garment
among the clear circles,
at the lighted feast
of modesty and honor.

Only, in the mild air,
to say goodby. Or there,
in grandmother's book,
Rapunzel, glancing down
from her strange tower.

Or stars over the sea.
Or tongues of fire.
A hearth-blaze. Fold
my hands, light the
four corners of the bed.