Where the robin red-breast made its nest,
there was a sweeping fence
overhung with subtle evergreen trees
beside the timeless garden of cornstalks,
spindles of beans,
and square strawberry leaves.
Here, in heaven
there is a window to our little earth,
where, peering through the glass
we see quite clearly—
The old steeple bells ring with song
to the purple ground
and the royalty of the wood—
this artist’s green
subdued the spider’s finite threads
with a crack of rain chenille.
Then the layered reparation
of old and new,
like oldest leaf clungto newest bloom.