This Song-Shot Hour

This song-shot hour should hold me fast forever,

A green door closed on my impermanence,

The peace of tree and grass to cool my fever,

And fold me in a fragrant somnolence.

Mine be the rabbit's bed in the wild clover,

Let my throat throb to the quail's rallying call,

So intimately kin I will uncover

The squirrel's covert where the acorns fall.

Though I must leave with the lark's speech unended,

The rabbit sleep again in his own bed,

I will return, as looked-for and befriended,

And hear the words the lark has left unsaid.