Jones's Pasture

Now is earth visibly gone over to spirit.

Bushes are more than bushes in this light.

Low sun, rolled cloud, and mile-long shadows cast,

Wild freshness, sharpened air, bathed sight, bare being,

Invade this old and all but empty pasture.

Seeing this ground under on-coming night

Lit by the colored sun down-rolling, dusk

Behind each reddened bush (and more than dusk),

I am back at the beginning, out of dust, in dew.

This, this is Dawn; this is primeval dew,

Death all to be, man unbegotten, life

Dazzling fire-naked over the face of the earth,

Licking up dust like stubble, without smoke.

WING-SPREAD

The midge spins out to safety

Through the spider's rope; .

But the moth, less lucky,

Has to grope.

Mired in glue-like cable

See it foundered swing

By the gap it opened

With its wing,

Dusty web enlacing

All that blue and beryl!

In a net of circumstance