Lonely field soon gets in trouble.
Vines along a fence will double
Their weight to cover it.
Out of corners will drift the thistle
And up from the dark will grope
The brier and burr; where good crops were,
The hazel and thorn will bristle
Invisible boundaries of a dream's unrest
Establish the sanctuary of the mind
Where hunters blunder but may never find
Upon the stream the nine white swans abreast.
Intruders there, reluctant to attest
That they have sensed the flash of light beh [...]