New Forest

Purple and gold through the morning sky

God sang, walking alone in the garden

The trees accept the pinioned light with a reluctant grace

and the high leaved oaks still mock the ash

with her arms of beseeching lace.

Down in the heather sleepy spiders

spread abroad a misted tracery.


Even at breakfast time

I heard this voice

long before the accustomed hour,

as if no joy of spring had yet expressed

this growth, this urge of sap and mind,

the slow first crawling of a reluctant beetle.


March 1953