WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen chetries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With afacry, hand in hand,
For the world's morefull of weeping than you
can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's morefully of weeping than you
can understand.}
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To to waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For to world's morefully of weeping than you
can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For be comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
from a world more full of weeping than you
can understand.

The ocean knows.
Fill the world's largest container with it,
Or a shotglass. A thimble.
It will not care. It cannot care;

Nothing is ever removed

From anything.

You stab me in the back with a knife,
and I apologize for bleeding on it.

My grandfather could barely make
Out the blond boy's head
Lost, if only just slightly|frightened
Enough still|amidst
Waves of green potatoe field.
An old man's single arm held my
Weight; I was that small.
A strand of grass to his oak.

Old ladies with veins on the outsides
Of still strong hands,
Who worked those same fields with
Him sixty years before,
Would look at me with unwitheld
Bewilderment:
You look just like him when he
Was your age...

How alien now, the idea: Someone
Knew that old man as a child,
Remembering well enough
To compare us.

And I still find myself there at times.
Lost|but not quite|yet
Worried that I am.
Waiting in the potatoe field.
Smaller than then, now that
I've grown;

Knowing that nobody's coming.