Shape of Air

It has lighted on you, this shape of air.
I don't want you to know that it is there:
Not yours or mine, as by the gate you stand
That divides the mountain from the worked land
And the first light of day, neither shade nor shine,
Shows through your open shirt your body's line.
The stones, the coppice, the inconsequent trees,
The cold fountain by the path, where blackberries
...