Xxxv

At daybreak from the woodland come Echoes of hunting; or the chop Of some far woodman’s axe, that cleaves The tingling oak, whose russet leaves Drop slowly where the white chips drop: The air is fragrant with the loam, Where, through the mists of steaming gold, The sudden sun strikes fold on fold. Out of the window, filmed with fog, I look into the wreck which was The kitchen-garden, drenched with rain; Among the death I mark again One blue convolvulus--that draws A gray vignette along a log, With pencilled tendrils washed and wan-- The garden-story’s colophon.