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Not Gladstone Park, the wideness, sloping trees,
The clarity of air remarking all
Events; not evening time, dog chasing ball
Across an inch of green; the swifts that please
Themselves; the chill that spells the end of sleeves,
White shirts foolhardiness; as I recall,
Not passing moments, matters great or small
Blanched in that sunlight; no, but none of these
Though vivid in the sight could tell my need:
The couple in their car that faced the west
Were strangely like preoccupied, indeed,
Detached as I, though so young, as made best
Not all this; but within it all to heed
Only the heart; and I, too, at their behest. |
