Camp

It happened on a Sunday

in a country of the sun

that our journey sank below

the patterns made on maps

wherever we were going

was suddenly the green

ferns by the river bank

where our car nosed in.

It was below all blowing

and great shows of the hills,

we happened there and were

in tunnels of the summer

where the flower. fills

with honey and with wind

and insects open up

their warm enormous ground.

We were not high and clever

but low and to be glad

beside the water's race

and islands to explore

that grass outrustled place

and plan and map together

and flies designed the air

about the roarer flower.

And there were beds of stones

baked white by the brown water

and feathery islands where

the birds chilled with their beaks

the beaches of white stones

but when we waded there

one great bird in a fright

and turret of bright air

came angry over,

crier and diver.

So all a summer's day

of a Sunday drowned in green,

we flourished in that country

and no one ever came

but the sun with a hand of brass

stood in his height of sky

and poured the map.like a cup

to run upon the place,

spilling it carelessly.

And no one ever came

where we were down so far

with our heads in our arms

sleeping on the grass,

except some children who

ran naked through the blurred

noon to the blazing pool

and spoke into our dream

by being beautiful

and never spoke a word.

CANOB

This points through place

gains by a whispered word

and winning no great way

creeps up the tasseled weather of the reeds.

Great boats cut cliffs

and dunk the shoreline land

but this infringes on the willow's shade,

passes the- flower's lighthouse, sips the bank.

This that is needle thin

and varnished violin