I have seen rare sunshine held in the first birch leaves
And the wind rearing to smell the blood of the tree,
And He has marched athwart with trumpets in the air
And cymbals of celandine beating about his feet.
In Summer He has thrust arched breast through dark branches,
His lips livid as campion, His breath the honeysuckle,
His golden mane live sunshine, His limbs a lion's
Languorous with overstrength, then taut for the mating.
At the burning of autumn I have seen Him
Crushing the vine in a wood of cypresses
And flinging a torch of disaster in bracken and heather,
Treading proudly the corn-crop, roaring with delight.
In winter I have seen Him on the black cross of a tree
With crows under his armpits and about his chest
Pecking with cruel beaks and eating frost.
He suffered silently. The air mimicked his agony.
My brain replies: ‘Poor fool, this is your image.
Nature is a mirror wherein we see ourselves.
The lonely man finds mountains, the shy man valleys:
The powerful man loves oaks, the weak man reeds.
‘You make men out of trees, women from flowers,
Boys and innocent girls out of simple grasses,
Like the Druid who made a damsel out of broom-blossom
And flowers of the oak and meadow-sweet gathered in dew.
‘Life is a lasting chaos, the world a wilderness
Confounding little orders in devastation.’
Deny yourself then, or find Him in this black husk,
For I can tell you, only if you know.
I have seen rare sunshine held in the first birch leaves
And the wind rearing to smell the blood of the tree,
And He has marched athwart with trumpets in the air
And cymbals of celandine beating about his feet.
In Summer He has thrust arched breast through dark branches,
His lips livid as campion, His breath the honeysuckle,
His golden mane live sunshine, His limbs a lion's
Languorous with overstrength, then taut for the mating.
At the burning of autumn I have seen Him
Crushing the vine in a wood of cypresses
And flinging a torch of disaster in bracken and heather,
Treading proudly the corn-crop, roaring with delight.
In winter I have seen Him on the black cross of a tree
With crows under his armpits and about his chest
Pecking with cruel beaks and eating frost.
He suffered silently. The air mimicked his agony.
My brain replies: ‘Poor fool, this is your image.
Nature is a mirror wherein we see ourselves.
The lonely man finds mountains, the shy man valleys:
The powerful man loves oaks, the weak man reeds.
‘You make men out of trees, women from flowers,
Boys and innocent girls out of simple grasses,
Like the Druid who made a damsel out of broom-blossom
And flowers of the oak and meadow-sweet gathered in dew.
‘Life is a lasting chaos, the world a wilderness
Confounding little orders in devastation.’
Deny yourself then, or find Him in this black husk,
For I can tell you, only if you know.
And the wind rearing to smell the blood of the tree,
And He has marched athwart with trumpets in the air
And cymbals of celandine beating about his feet.
In Summer He has thrust arched breast through dark branches,
His lips livid as campion, His breath the honeysuckle,
His golden mane live sunshine, His limbs a lion's
Languorous with overstrength, then taut for the mating.
At the burning of autumn I have seen Him
Crushing the vine in a wood of cypresses
And flinging a torch of disaster in bracken and heather,
Treading proudly the corn-crop, roaring with delight.
In winter I have seen Him on the black cross of a tree
With crows under his armpits and about his chest
Pecking with cruel beaks and eating frost.
He suffered silently. The air mimicked his agony.
My brain replies: ‘Poor fool, this is your image.
Nature is a mirror wherein we see ourselves.
The lonely man finds mountains, the shy man valleys:
The powerful man loves oaks, the weak man reeds.
‘You make men out of trees, women from flowers,
Boys and innocent girls out of simple grasses,
Like the Druid who made a damsel out of broom-blossom
And flowers of the oak and meadow-sweet gathered in dew.
‘Life is a lasting chaos, the world a wilderness
Confounding little orders in devastation.’
Deny yourself then, or find Him in this black husk,
For I can tell you, only if you know.
I have seen rare sunshine held in the first birch leaves
And the wind rearing to smell the blood of the tree,
And He has marched athwart with trumpets in the air
And cymbals of celandine beating about his feet.
In Summer He has thrust arched breast through dark branches,
His lips livid as campion, His breath the honeysuckle,
His golden mane live sunshine, His limbs a lion's
Languorous with overstrength, then taut for the mating.
At the burning of autumn I have seen Him
Crushing the vine in a wood of cypresses
And flinging a torch of disaster in bracken and heather,
Treading proudly the corn-crop, roaring with delight.
In winter I have seen Him on the black cross of a tree
With crows under his armpits and about his chest
Pecking with cruel beaks and eating frost.
He suffered silently. The air mimicked his agony.
My brain replies: ‘Poor fool, this is your image.
Nature is a mirror wherein we see ourselves.
The lonely man finds mountains, the shy man valleys:
The powerful man loves oaks, the weak man reeds.
‘You make men out of trees, women from flowers,
Boys and innocent girls out of simple grasses,
Like the Druid who made a damsel out of broom-blossom
And flowers of the oak and meadow-sweet gathered in dew.
‘Life is a lasting chaos, the world a wilderness
Confounding little orders in devastation.’
Deny yourself then, or find Him in this black husk,
For I can tell you, only if you know.