Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/32

 You who lie on your backs in the sun, you roots, You roses among others who take the rain Into you, vegetables, listen—the salt stone That the sea divulges does not fructify. It sits by itself. It is sufficient. But you— Who was your great-grandfather or your mother’s mother?

One of those mild evenings when you think Spring is to-morrow and you can smell the earth Smouldering under wet leaves and there’s still A little light left over the pine-tree top And you stand listening— So she closed the gate