Classic Poem

It is the daily love, grass high
they say that will cure her.
No good to reply: the sorrel never
has four leaves, if the clover
may — It is the hydraheaded pulpit,
but an impassioned one in this case,
purple, lined with white velvet
for a young priest — by what
lady's hand? Agh it is no pulpit
but a baying dog, a kennel of
purple dogs on one leash,
fangs bared — to keep away harm
and never caring for the place:
down the torn lane
where the cows pass,
under the appletree, nodding
against high tide or in the lea of
a pasture thistle, almost blue,
never far to seek, they say
it will cure her.