The Garden

The garden is a pleasure-house, a house of all delight. In it, I shall collect and make my home, my garden among the stones; I shall have a rich light, a light that glitters on the dew. Here I shall walk, stay, die and rise, cut to strife for the hive, fender, plotting with the sun;

a breast, slipping soft beneath the leaf, and down, the field, a nest made close, why should the green stem hold a broken spine? Should I not know the night and suffer to the last; please ye, grow up, the leaf set in the light.

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