Sabbaths, 1982—IV  <br />(“A gardener rises out of the ground”)<br /><br /><br />Thrush song, stream song, holy love<br />That flows through earthly forms and folds,<br />The song of Heaven’s Sabbath fleshed<br />In throat and ear, in stream and stone,<br />A grace living here as we live,<br />Move my mind now to that which holds<br />Things as they change. <br /> The warmth has come.<br />The doors have opened. Flower and song<br />Embroider ground and air, lead me<br />Beside the healing field that waits;<br />Growth, death, and a restoring form<br />Of human use will make it well.<br />But I go on, beyond, higher<br />In the hill’s fold, forget the time<br />I come from and go to, recall<br />This grove left out of all account,<br />A place enclosed in song.<br /> Design<br />Now falls from thought. I go amazed<br />Into the maze of a design<br />That mind can follow but not know,<br />Apparent, plain, and yet unknown,<br />The outline lost in earth and sky.<br />What form wakens and rumples this?<br />Be still. A man who seems to be<br />A gardener rises out of the ground,<br />Stands like a tree, shakes off the dark,<br />The bluebells opening at his feet,<br />The light a figured cloth of song.