In the first half-light of the morning the farmer turns toward
                                                       the window
Besides which he sleeps; through which he sees his fields
Covered with Spring mist like that first layer of feminine flesh
Which it seems we can see through;—where the nearer fields
                                                       dissolve into it. 
As dark as the flesh the larger surfaces of her legs round
We are content as there rises from these to our nostrils
                                                       the ageless memory of a home:
Of the manured land we have never been able to live too
                                                       long away from.