4
In the evening after they have brought their cattle home, they sit on the grass before their huts to know that you are among them unseen, to repeat in their songs the name which they have fondly given you.
While kings' crowns shine and disappear like falling stars, around village huts your name rises through the still night from the simple hearts of your lovers whose names are unrecorded.
5
In Baby's world, the trees shake their leaves at him, murmuring verses in an ancient tongue that dates from before the age of meaning, and the moon feigns to be of his own age—the solitary baby of night.
In the world of the old, flowers dutifully blush at the make-believe of faery legends, and broken dolls confess that they are made of clay.
6
My world, when I was a child, you were a little girl-neighbour, a loving timid stranger.
Then you grew bold and talked to me across the fence, offering me toys and flowers and shells.
Next you coaxed me away from my work, you tempted me into the land of the dusk or the weedy corner of some garden in mid-day loneliness.