Far from the earth that might not keep him long.
With the fine weather and the waxing year.
To watch the dripping mill-wheel green with damp.
For sound of the weir’s plunging. He was old.
His days went round with the unhurrying wheel.
Scaring the gaping elders with loud talk.
Above the town, half-hid by towering trees.
And mirth, and scolding; and the grind of wheels.
Then a long line of trucks began to move.
Dark in their noble canopies of leaves.
And with low laughter ask me why I’m late.
Leapt upon France and called her men to fight.
That gaped in twilight, framing inward gloom.
Where lofty boughs netted the gleam of stars.
And heavily the shadows crowded in.
With misty raiment of awakening green.
And wonder stooping from the tranquil sky.
Ah! but there was no need to call his name.
He was beside me now, as swift as light.
And lifted in the rapture of dark pines.
Than heaven has stars; and they are lit by love.
And dawn and sunset flame with my spilt blood.
That chant my doom along the ocean’s edge.
That you may share the wisdom of my peace.
For talking water travels undismayed.
Where showering hawthorn strews the lanes of light.
Whetting his blade along some morn of June.
Gathers the naked children to her knees.
When all my flowers were washed with rain of tears.
Bursting like April buds in gyres of song.
On silent woods, where glory burns the leaves.
Pouring and splashing downward through the dark.
And voice of doom that crackles overhead.
Of whispering trees, I shall not understand.
Can win no meaning from the talk of birds.
When the hid sun looks forth with golden stare.
And youth, that dying, touched my lips to song.