Real Property

Tell me about that harvest field. Oh! Fifty acres of living bread. The colour has painted itself in my heart; The form is patterned in my head. So now I take it everywhere, See it whenever I look round; Hear it growing through every sound, Know exactly the sound it makes — Remembering, as one must all day, Under the pavement the live earth aches. Trees are at the farther end, Limes all full of the mumbling bee: So there must be a harvest field Whenever one thinks of a linden tree. A hedge is about it, very tall, Hazy and cool, and breathing sweet. Round paradise is such a wall, And all the day, in such a way, In paradise the wild birds call. You only need to close your eyes And go within your secret mind, And you'll be into paradise: I've learnt quite easily to find Some linden trees and drowsy bees, A tall sweet hedge with the corn behind. I will not have that harvest mown: I'll keep the corn and leave the bread. I've bought that field; it's now my own: I've fifty acres in my head. I take it as a dream to bed. I carry it about all day.... Sometimes when I have found a friend I give a blade of corn away.