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.