A Possible World
There is no having to be had In possibility; It's speculation's whitest realm And pure futurity.
The armies of the probable, Tough, dissolute and trained, Have never fouled its frontier Defenceless, though unstained.
Its acres underneath the sun Stretch virgin mile on mile, And ripple on the wind to one Immortal wheaten smile; We who in our contingency Can only pine or fear Long for the golden livelihood Of that inviolate ear.
Harvests that never feel the scythe, Ungarnered into barns, Beyond the exorbitance of fact The modest, white-washed farms.
What can deny this other land Its freedom just to be?
Only the bounds of our desire That shrink continually. ROGER SHARROC%