TENDER  and  tremulous  green  of  leaves 
Turned  up  by  the  wind, 
Twanging  among  the  vines  — 

Wind  in  the  grass 
Blowing  a  clear  path 
For  the  new-stripped  soul  to  pass  .  .  . 

The  naked  soul  in  the  sunlight  .  .  . 
Like  a  wisp  of  smoke  in  the  sunlight 
On  the  hill-side  shimmering. 

Dance  light  on  the  wind,  little  soul, 
Like  a  thistle-down  floating 
Over  the  butterflies 

And  the  lumbering  bees  .  .  . 
Come  away  from  that  tree 
And  its  shadow  grey  as  a  stone  .  .  . 

Bathe  in  the  pools  of  light 
On  the  hillside  shimmering  — 
Shining  and  wetted  and  warm  in  the  sun-spray  falling 
like  golden  rain  — 

But  do  not  linger  and  look 
At  that  bleak  thing  under  the  tree.