One Pastoral

Hills by fleece and grass, dirty
Mud mixes everything
Which melts, though no original
Since it is cold. Walls
Won't fortify with reed and fire
If it cooks can never warm, though
There are stars -- and that is puzzling,
Too. The sounds especially grow dim
Among what little grass,
And never in the spectacle surprise unless
The eyes forget. Still, there is wheat;
Still, there is meat. Still words
Are sometimes heard -- and that is puzzling,
Too.