Summer, Afternoon

This this will it always be, and why

To ever argue for: here walking

In its life, or sprawled, or loitering

Down shallow valleys of the lawn:

The trees that are there

The pigeon bobbing through

Its fallowgray ellipse of ground—

The comfort of this ground

Is physical: the sun

Goes through your shirt like liniment,

                                   The tilting

Child in fact now finding

Its first step, the blue balloon, the string

Of ducks drawn through the pond,

The twined twain, the air that hears

The day’s gamegame, and where

Up through the cross-rack oak

Deep gladed lofts of leaf, green

Overtaking green and light and green

Array and hold

Their silent chord,

To where the vergemost

Quibble at clear nothing—there

Is not a purer ledge of opening; nothing

Here is not enough to be without

All need to ever argue for.