as if it were a scene made-up by the mind，

    that is not mine， but is a made place，

    that is mine， it is so near to the heart，

    an eternal pasture folded in all thought

    so that there is a hall therein

    that is a made place， created by light

    wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.

    Wherefrom fall all architectures I am

    I say are likenesses of the First Beloved

    whose flowers are flames lit to the Lady.

    She it is Queen Under The Hill

    whose hosts are a disturbance¹ of words within words

    that is a field folded.

    It is only a dream of the grass blowing

    east against the source of the sun

    in an hour before the sun's going down

    whose secret we see in a children's game

    of ring a round of roses told.

    Often I am permitted to return to a meadow

    as if it were a given property of the mind

    that certain bounds hold against chaos²，

    that is a place of first permission，

    everlasting³ omen⁴ of what is.