The idiot greens the meadow with his eyes, The meadow creeps, implacable and still; A dog barks; the hammock swings; he lies. One, two, three, the cows bulge on the hill.
In a valley late bees with whining gold Thread summer to the loose ends of sleep; A harvester pauses, surprised, in dreams of sheep, Across his back the ravellings of the sun.
In 1932 I was in France for the second time, and I hoped to accomplish what I had failed to do on my first visit four years earlier: an introduction to Paul Valéry.
