.  SWEET TIMOTHY  _ - for Jane on our 00th_  I  (0000-00)  White are the beds of April,  waylaid beautiful fire  burning out of luck and life,  being earlier than I have ever thought,  where, once leaves breathe  in the walk of morning,  light flakes green.  Children are the first awake,  before milk or bird,  waiting for sound  and the secret bowers of summer.  Wind through sunlight.  Cobwebs on the rhubarb leaves.  What flows between me but  even spring,  even water  drying inward from the edges.  Sweet timothy of days and my dear  tell me many times  how hot are the beds of summer.  Say at last a bush is burning,  lovely as life  when the thought is on us,  hatched in loitering acts  and rising all the time,  though there is time enough  to die in life as lovely as aching;  or being found out in my prayer,  leave me half on fire,  throwing off attitudes like flame,  for these grave eyes divine what  but that there is not in being one  I may love after you.  II  (0000)  These uncertain hands  carry both love and poison,  have been our undoing many times,  but refuse to disappear.  Take them again -   recall their stubborn particulars  as we return to the bluegreen meadow  wholly dependent on our inabilities.  Goldfinch, redwing, the hawk-stunned air,  the endlessly uttering grasses  say still there breathes no other  across a thousand miles of evening.  ## 