DISPOSSESSED

Tender and tremulous green of leaves

Turned up by the wind,

Twanging among the vines —

Wind in the grass

Blowing a clear path

For the new-stripped soul to pass...

The naked soul in the sunlight...

Like a wisp of smoke in the sunlight

On the hill-side shimmering.

Dance light on the wind, little soul,

Like a thistle-down floating

Over the butterflies

And the lumbering bees...

Come away from that tree

And its shadow grey as a stone...

Bathe in the pools of light

On the hillside shimmering —

Shining and wetted and warm in the sun-spray falling like golden rain —

But do not linger and look

At that bleak thing under the tree.