June--To--Come

WHEN the sun’s fire and gold Sets the bee humming, I will not write to tell Him that I’m coming,

But ride out unawares On that old road, Of Minsterworth, of Peace, Of Framilode,

And walk, not looked for, in That cool, dark passage. Never a single word; Myself my message.

And then; well ... O we’ll drift And stand and gaze, And wonder how we could In those Bad Days

Live without Minsterworth; Or western air Fanning the hot cheek, Stirring the hair; In land where hate of men God’s love did cover; This land.... And here’s my dream Irrevocably over.