Could I find it again,
that mossy gate
So nearly overgrown
With crowding grasses
And a high sea of cow parsley faces
Brushing an arch of leaves,
Might I find it -?

Never go back, they say,
So I will not try
Except in dreams, to find
Where the hot road forked
The wheels ran suddenly soft
And we looked through
To limitless summer
But did not climb over.