Always the farmer talked

To his new young wife

Of his hills and fields in terms of crops,

And his wheat, of the money it brought.

Often he spoke of a shady spot

Where cedar trees

Grew around a rock

And a pool lay still beneath.

An 'eyesore' he called it,

And spoke of blasts.

Make it easy to plow?' he said

But his slim young wife

Cried out at that

And that puzzled his farmer's head.

She spoke of the shade -

Said the green limbs

On the old gray rock, were cool .

How could he know of the dream she had

Of an old greek god

With a sweet voiced pip,

And a cloud she saw in the pool.