Kinsella, Thomas: Midsummer

Hereabouts the signs are good.
Propitious creatures of the wood
After their fashion
Have pitied and blessed before our eyes.
All unpremeditated lies
Our scattered passion.

Flowers whose name I do not know
Make happy signals to us. O
Did ever bees
Stumble on such a quiet before!
The evening is a huge closed door
And no one sees

How we, absorbed in our own art,
Have locked ourselves inside one heart,
Grown silent and,
Under beech and sacred larch,
Watched as though it were an arch
That heart expand.

Something that for this long year
Had hid and halted like a deer
Turned marvellous,
Parted the tragic grasses, tame,
Lifted its perfect head and came
To welcome us.

We have, dear reason, of this glade
An endless tabernacle made,
An origin.
Well for whatever lonely one
Will find this right place to lay down
His desert in.