DIGGING
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O-DAY I thinkOnly with scents,--scents dead leaves yield,And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,And the square mustard field; Odours that riseWhen the spade wounds the root of tree,Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,Rhubarb or celery; The smoke's smell, too,Flowing from where a bonfire burnsThe dead, the waste, the dangerous,And all to sweetness turns. It is enoughTo smell, to crumble the dark earth.While the robin sings over againSad songs of Autumn mirth.
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