And the trees are lines of black Hindus
Praying in black shrivelled attitudes.
II.
The grass is a priest in dream-gold cloth,
Lying on his back, hard with years of thought-spinning.
The lateral-gray, snarled clouds over him
Are the thoughts he has solemnly woven.
III.
The slender lagoon holds the laughter of a child
With his lips to a huge, full cup.