Only to read childrens’ books...

Only to read childrens’ books,

only to love childish things,

throwing away adult things,

rising from saddest looks.

I am wearied to death with life.

There’s nothing it has that I want,

but I celebrate my naked earth,

there’s no other world to descant.

A plain swing of wood;

the dark, of the high fir-tree,

in the far-off garden, swinging;

remembered by feverish blood.