Out of us all that make rhymes, will you choose Sometimes - As the winds use a crack in a wall or a drain, their joy or their pain to whistle through - Choose me, our words ?

I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,

As the dearest faces
That a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than older yew, -
As our hills are, old, -
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
and as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love...

Make me content
With some sweetness
From ???
whose nightingales
Have no wings, -
From Sintra and Cascais
And Lisbon,
And the villages there, -
From the name and the things
No less.

Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy.
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.