I’ll make love to you         in all good places      under black mountains   in open spaces.    By deep brown rivers     that slither darkly    through far marches      where the blue hare races.    Come with me to the Winged Isle ---     northern father’s western child.   Where the dance of ages is playing still     through far marches of acres wild.   REST THE SAME   I’ll make love to you     in narrow side streets     with shuttered windows     crumbling chimneys.   Come with me to the weary town ---     discos silent under tiles     that slide from roof-tops scatter softly     on concrete marches of acres wild.   By red bricks pointed     with cement fingers   Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.   Come with me to the Winged Isle ---     northern father’s western child.   Where the dance of ages is playing still     through far marches of acres wild.