The seed shop.
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shriveled scentless dry,
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of haw throne dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust,
That will drink deeply of a century’s streams,
These lilies shall make summer on my dust,
Here in their safe and simple house of death, 
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.