There, in the middle of the wood, down
on his fustian knees
with all those green-stockinged
tree-girls straddled above him
in their shimmery skirts, he fell.
The grass grabbed him.

Ah, with what dismay
amid the teaspoons and smashed
porcelain was he prostrated there!
It was the ladies righted him—
clicking their tongues
and leaning over him with sal volatile,
their pasteboard bosoms taut with sympathy.
You are unwell? they asked.

He never answered them, but sat
in silence in a basket chair
while the days raced over the vacant lawns
and the seasons whirled—
till their amber heads were gray
and they left him there.