The meadow murmurs, In distant echoes calls, Still in shrouds of greyer wind, Yet the blossomed time, set in tales, Remains lost beneath fading leaves. Each tree, a witness, swaying closer, Bending to catch whispers in a gale.
We are but shadows dancing, Over the greenest spring tone, With dew drifting thin. Where shall we dance when the storm? Sincerity runs like water through weave— And concealed the heart of the jades. In the meadow, Ride my blooms, love entwined, I feel the imprint of myself—
In seedlings sowed about the world’s round meat.

• Hilda Doolittle