ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH

BENEATH the sunlight and blue of all-but Autumn

The grass sleeps goldenly; woodland and distant hill

Shine through the gauzy air in a dust of golden pollen,

And even the glittering leaves are almost still.

Scattered on the grass, like a ragman’ s bundles carelessly dropped,

Men sleep outstretched or, sprawling, bask in the sun;

Here glows a woman’ s bright dress and here a child is sitting,

And I lie down and am one of the sleepers, one

Like the rest of this tumbled crowd. Do they all, I wonder,

Feel anguish grow with the calm day’ s slow decline,

Longing, as I, for a shattering wind, a passion

Of bodily pain to be the soul’ s anodyne?