The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The chief difficulty here is: what eye? Whose eye? 
 The answer may well be in the next line: the ravens we saw perched on the ‘winter sticks’ are probably there because some ready carrion feast on the ground awaits them. The grass will grow quite literally through the hollowed eye-sockets of the corpse. 
 A passage rather near to this one is in Foscolo’s  Dei sepolcri , famous only long after his death. Yet there is as little reason to suppose Thomas read it as to assume that he didn’t, so we must leave it be.
Especially when the October wind