The Wind in the Hemlock

Steely stars and moon of brass, How mockingly you watch me pass! You know as well as I how soon I shall be blind to stars and moon, Deaf to the wind in the hemlock tree, Dumb when the brown earth weighs on me. With envious dark rage I bear, Stars, your cold complacent stare; Heart-broken in my hate look up, Moon, at your clear immortal cup, Changing to gold from dusky red— Age after age when I am dead To be filled up with light, and then Emptied, to be refilled again. What has man done that only he Is slave to death—so brutally Beaten back into the earth Impatient for him since his birth? Oh let me shut my eyes, close out The sight of stars and earth and be Sheltered a minute by this tree. Hemlock, through your fragrant boughs There moves no anger and no doubt, No envy of immortal things. The night-wind murmurs of the sea With veiled music ceaselessly, That to my shaken spirit sings. From their frail nest the robins rouse, In your pungent darkness stirred, Twittering a low drowsy word— And me you shelter, even me. In your quietness you house The wind, the woman and the bird. You speak to me and I have heard: