angel poem

suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
little gate was reached at last
musing, between the sunset and the dark
within my hand i hold
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
passing through huddled and ugly walls
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
i had over-prepared the event
the old songs
eighty years have passed, and more
backward, turn backward
in may
she might have known it in the earlier spring