But only what they become....
Was it always so queer and inexplicable?
Yes, but the fresh smell of things ...
Are these apples in the wet grass, I wonder?
Sweet, sweet, sweet, the smell of the living!
And the far-off sky, and the stars,
And the quiet spaces between,
So that one can float and fly ...
Why used we only to walk?
This is the gate—and the latch still unmended!