Vi

He looks from his window toward the sombre west:

Ridged and bleak the gray, forsaken Twilight at the night has guessed; And no star of dusk has taken Flame unshaken in the west.

All day long the woodlands, dying, Moaned, and drippings as of grief Rained from barren boughs with sighing Death of flying twig and leaf.

Ah, to live a life unbroken Of the flings and scorns of fate! Like that tree, with branches oaken, Strength’s unspoken intimate.--

Who can say that we have never Lived the life of plants and trees?-- Not so wide the lines that sever Us forever here from these.

Colors, odors, that are cherished, Haply hint we once were flowers: Memory alone has perished In this garnished world that’s ours.

Music,--that all things expresses, All for which we’ve sought and sinned,-- Haply in our treey tresses Once was guesses of the wind.

But I dream!--The dusk, dark braiding Locks that lack both moon and star, Deepens; and, the darkness aiding, Earth seems fading, faint and far.

And within me doubt keeps saying-- “What is wrong, and what is right? Hear the cursing! hear the praying! All are straying on in night.”