Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work- I am the grass; I cover all.

 And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

 What place is this?
Where are we now?

 I am the grass.
Let me work. 

The peace of great doors be for you.
Wait at the knobs, at the panel oblongs.
Wait for the great hinges.

 The peace of great churches be for you,
Where the players of loft pipe organs
Practice old lovely fragments, alone.

 The peace of great books be for you,
Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages,
Bleach of the light of years held in leather.

 The peace of great prairies be for you.
Listen among windplayers in cornfields,
The wind learning over its oldest music.

 The peace of great seas be for you.
Wait on a hook of land, a rock footing
For you, wait in the salt wash. 

"Baby Song of the Four Winds"

Let me be your baby, south wind.
Rock me, let me rock, rock me now.
Rock me low, rock me warm.
Let me be your baby.

 Comb my hair, west wind.
Comb me with a cowlick.
Or let me go with a pompadour.
Come on, west wind, make me your baby.

 North wind, shake me where I'm foolish.
Shake me loose and change my ways.
Cool my ears with a blue sea wind.
I'm your baby, make me behave.

 And you, east wind, what can I ask?
A fog comfort? A fog to tuck me in?
Fix me so and let me sleep.
I'm your baby - and I always was.