July 5 1940

Nought that I would give today

Would half compare

With the long-treasured riches that somewhere

In the deep heart are stored.

Cloud and the moon and mist and the whole

Hoard of frail, white-bubbling stars,

And the cool blessing,

Like moth or wind caressing,

Of the fair, fresh rain-dipped flowers;

And all the spells of the sea, and the new green

Of moss and fern and bracken

Before their youth is stricken;

The thoughts of the trees at eventide, the hush

In the dark corn at morning,

And the wish

In your own heart still but dawning —

All of these,

A soft weight on your hands,

I would give now;

And lastly myself made clean

And white as the wave-washed sand,

If I knew how.