Athirst for insects, butterflies.

And stains we long had waited,

And round us both were memories

Of heat, mint, honey plaited.

No clocks chimed, but the flail rang clear

From dawn to dusk and planted

Its dreams of stings into the air.

The weather was enchanted.

Strolled sunset to its heart’s content,

They yielded to cicadas

And stars and trees its government

Of gardens and of larders.

The moon in absence, out of sight.

Not shade but baulks was throwing.

And softly, softly the shy night

From cloud to cloud was flowing.

From dream more than from roof, and more

Forgetful than faint-hearted.

Soft rain was shuffling at the door

And smell of wine-corks spurted.

So smelt the dust. So smelt the grass

And if we chanced to heed them.

Smell from the gentry’s teaching was

Of brotherhood and freedom.

The councils met in villages;

Weren’t you with those that held them?

Bright with wood-sorrel hung the days,

And smell of wine-corks filled them.