To tell the range of the English longbows
At Agincourt, or Crécy,
We need look no further than the yews
That, even in Irish graveyards,
Are bent on Fitzwilliams and de Courcys.
These are the date-palms of the North.

They grow where nothing really should.
No matter how many are gathered
They never make a wood.
The coffin-board that yearns to be a tree
Goes on to bear no small, sweet gourds
As might be trampled by another Christ.

Today’s the day for all such entrances.
I was wondering if you’d bring me through
To a world where everything stands
For itself, and carries 
Just as much weight as me on you.
My scrawny door-mat. My deep red carpet.