We asked him, did he really want her back.
This seemed to take him very much aback:
He spoke of her belled hair
Tawny against the hayfield,
Behind her voice the meadowlarks;
How by dolmen and fir
-Druid white, dryad green-
She assembled the phenomena
And became their rune.

The incurvations of her breasts, her back!
That sweet beast, each contributing a back,
Played on the silken sward
Through those summer nights
Never quite sleeping
As hounds belled, hinds leapt
Through life-turfed, legend-treed
...