Tell me about that harvest field. <br />Oh! Fifty acres of living bread. <br />The colour has painted itself in my heart; <br />The form is patterned in my head. <br /> <br />So now I take it everywhere, <br />See it whenever I look round; <br />Hear it growing through every sound, <br />Know exactly the sound it makes — <br />Remembering, as one must all day, <br />Under the pavement the live earth aches. <br /> <br />Trees are at the farther end, <br />Limes all full of the mumbling bee: <br />So there must be a harvest field <br />Whenever one thinks of a linden tree. <br /> <br />A hedge is about it, very tall, <br />Hazy and cool, and breathing sweet. <br />Round paradise is such a wall, <br />And all the day, in such a way, <br />In paradise the wild birds call. <br /> <br />You only need to close your eyes <br />And go within your secret mind, <br />And you'll be into paradise: <br />I've learnt quite easily to find <br />Some linden trees and drowsy bees, <br />A tall sweet hedge with the corn behind. <br /> <br />I will not have that harvest mown: <br />I'll keep the corn and leave the bread. <br />I've bought that field; it's now my own: <br />I've fifty acres in my head. <br />I take it as a dream to bed. <br />I carry it about all day.... <br /> <br />Sometimes when I have found a friend <br />I give a blade of corn away.<br /><br />Harold Monro<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/real-property/
