Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow

　　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.