Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow

as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
That is not mine, but is a made place,

That is mine, it is so near to the heart,
An eternal pasture folded in all thought
So that there is a hall therein

That is a made place, created by light
Wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.

Wherefrom fall all architectures I am
I say are likenesses of the First Beloved
Whose flowers are flames lit to the Lady.

She it is Queen Under The Hill
Whose hosts are a disturbance of words within words
That is a field folded.

It is only a dream of the grass blowing
East against the source of the sun
In an hour before the sun’s going down

Whose secret we see in a children’s game
Of ring a round of roses told.

Often I am permitted to return to a meadow
As if it were a given property of the mind
That certain bounds hold against chaos,

That is a place of first permission,
Everlasting omen of what is.

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Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow