Waking from worry, he travelled through the morning,
Where doggerel scampered to the formal rocks,
And, circling greener visions, came on flocks
Of ghosts. who, grazing by an arid warning,
Gave him ‘Good Sorrow’, then returned to scorning
Old memories, while he gathered paradox
In baskets woven from the plaited shocks
Of chance, and chased the black and white suborning.
Noon was still there, waiting by the signpost,
A little bird in his hand, while time of day,
Who had been up since childhood, singing, played.
They walked together, for the rain was lost
Along that road, and praised the lights of May.
And so continued while the waking stayed.