Size / / /
for Sovay
He is not a lord like Milord Byron;
None of us is beneath his notice.
He sits in bushes and spies on us.
When the moment is right we go into his sack.
He empties that sack in a dreary garden
Where souls are planted in long straight rows,
Sending up leaves as thick as your hand
And a stalk with clusters of shiny, black fruit.