I do not understand the world, Father. By the millpond at the end of the garden There is a man who slouches listening To the wheel revolving in the stream, only There is no wheel there to revolve.
He sits in the end of March, but he sits also In the end of the garden; his hands are in His pockets. It is not expectation On which he is intent, nor yesterday To which he listens. It is a wheel turning.
When I speak, Father, it is the world That I must mention. He does not move His feet nor so much as raise his head For fear he should disturb the sound he hears Like a pain without a cry, where he listens.
I do not think I am fond, Father, Of the way in which always before he listens He prepares himself by listening. It is Unequal, Father, like the reason For which the wheel turns, though there is no wheel.
I speak of him, Father, because he is There with his hands in his pockets, in the end Of the garden listening to the turning Wheel that is not there, but it is the world, Father, that I do not understand.