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?
