Not quite released from shade, from the meshed arbour
At whose small wells of sun the leaves were drinking,
The grass lay narrowed in an inland harbour,
Enamelled vert; and patterned thereupon
The wind, white-plumaged, ruffled like a swan.
That silent, nocturnal green was always thinking
Of me; not I of it. Some act of seeing
Had told it I would come, and in what guise,
With what spent body, down what weary road.
So when the hour was told, without surprise
It set the total vision in my eyes,
It drew my substance down to grassy being;
And I flung up my head against the skies
And passed, for once too proud to heed the goad.