All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out
the cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lum-
the heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the
are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the
deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great
to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll
with the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like
a casket of gold
for my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in
the deeps of my heart.