[They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.]Come to me only with playthings now. . .
A picture of a singing woman with blue
Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers. . .
Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling
Of days that never happened anywhere in the world. . .
No more iron cold and real to handle,
Shaped for a drive straight ahead.
Bring me only beautiful useless things.
Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet. . .
And at the window one day in
Yellow of the new crock of
Stood against the red of new climbing roses. . .
And the world was all playthings.
