The Untilled Field

There is a field that never has been tilled;
All it has ever grown: flowers, grass, and trees,
And weeds that are not weeds, but, mixed with these,
Imperial things with light and colour filled;
There's crab-apple standing in the centre;
There's briars and bramble clutch you as you enter…
A red squirrel chatters, flashing round a limb,
As if to warn you it's a private place
Reserved for birds and beasts the like of him…
A bough whips back and stings across your face…
If you must come here, this is all I ask:
That you won't bring a furrowing plowman here
To turn this tangled Joy into a task,
Expecting harvests each renewing year;
Let it stay quiet still through hidden hours
Made sweet by countless springs of unplucked flowers.
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