My garden is the wild 
   Sea of the grass. Her garden 
Shelters between walls. 
   The tide could break in; 
   I should be sorry for this.  
 
There is peace there of a kind, 
   Though not the deep peace 
Of wild places. Her care 
   For green life has enabled 
   The weak things to grow. 
 
Despite my first love, 
   I take sometimes her hand, 
Following straight paths 
   Between flowers, the nostril 
   Clogged with their thick scent. 
 
The old softness of lawns 
   Persuading the slow foot 
Leads to defection; the silence 
   Holds with its gloved hand 
   The wild hawk of the mind. 
 
But not for long, windows, 
   Opening in the trees 
Call the mind back 
   To its true eyrie; I stoop 
   Here only in play.