XV

O seeded grass, you army of little men

Crawling up the long slope with quivering, quick blades of steel:

You who storm millions of graves, tiny green tentacles of Earth,

Interlace yourselves tightly over my heart,

And do not let me go:

For I would lie here forever and watch with one eye

The pilgrimaging ants in your dull, savage jungles,

The while with the other I see the stiff lines of the slope

Break in mid-air, a wave surprisingly arrested,

And above them, wavering, dancing, bodiless, colourless, unreal,

The long thin lazy fingers of the heat.