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The owl in the woods has a hollowed cry
and the moth has a furry flutter –
but you, my love, and me alone
have the tender touch of another –

Unspirited now, untenanted waste,
the meadow all locked in its end;
all hours are after, all pasts are done,
and the future too heavy to bend –

the hedgehog is haunted by dreams of the fox
and the fox by the bands of men –
but come, my love, with me, alone
to inhabit those years again:

come down, come down, between the yews
to the glade where the last flowers bloom;
for all colour is gone, all wonder is lost
to the coal and the petrol fume;

come petal the night, its amorous scent,
with primrose, and jasmine, and phlox –
what spirits might rise, what vapours appear
when our seeds have ruined the clocks?