by Robert Duncan

by Robert Duncan
     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.