"small and bare
let your hands fall where they may,
let the farmer sow his seed
new growing things spring from ditches and empty fields
leave a bit on its own - you never know what may come
earth -- sod turned and sifted. When will you give it a chance?
it isn't dead, though brown and grey and dry
broken things grow the tallest trees
give a turn to budding roots
rays and streams from grey skies
tread soft, speak low
the earth has won its war
shoots and blossoms broken through
and ivy gathers for the girl with the crooked smile."