In the first half-night of the morning the farmer tums toward
                                                             the window
Besides which he sleeps; through which he sees his fields
Covered with Spring mist like that first layer of feminine flesh
Which it seems we can see through;—where the nearer fields
                                                             dissolve into it.
As dark as the flesh the larger surfaces of her legs round
We are content as there rises from these to our nostrils
                                                             the ageless memory of a home:
Of the manured land we have never been able to live too
                                                             long away from.