The leaves on the macadam make a noise—

How soft the grass on which the desired

Reclines in the temperature of heaven—

Like tales that were told the day before yesterday—

Sleek in a natural nakedness,

She attends the tintinnabula—

And the wind sways like a great thing tottering—

Of birds called up by more than the sun,

Birds of more wit, that substitute—

Which suddenly is all dissolved and gone—

Their intelligible twittering

For unintelligible thought.

And yet this end and this beginning are one,

And one last look at the ducks is a look

At lucent children round her in a ring.