[They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.] Come to me only with playthings now. . . A picture of a singing woman with blue eyes Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers. . . Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories Of days that never happened anywhere in the world. . . No more iron cold and real to handle, Shaped for a drive straight ahead. Bring me only beautiful useless things. Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet. . . And at the window one day in summer Yellow of the new crock of butter Stood against the red of new climbing roses. . . And the world was all playthings.