[@3They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.@1] COME to me only with playthings now . . . A picture of a singing woman with blue eyes Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers . . . Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories Of days that never happened anywhere in the world . . . No more iron cold and real to handle, Shaped for a drive straight ahead. Bring me only beautiful useless things. Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet . . . And at the window one day in summer Yellow of the new crock of butter Stood against the red of new climbing roses . . . And the world was all playthings. |