I will not walk in the wood to-night, I will not stand by the water’s edge And see day lie on the dusk’s bright ledge Until it turn, a star at its breast, To rest. I will not see the wide-flung hills Closing darkly about my grief, I wore a crown of their lightest leaf, But now they press like a cold, blue ring, Imprisoning. I dare not meet that caroling blade, Jauntily drawn in the sunset pine, Stabbing me with its thrust divine, Knowing my naked, aching need, Till I bleed. Sheathe your song, invincible bird, Strike not at me with that flashing note, Have pity, have pity, persistent throat, Deliver me not to your dread delight To-night! I am afraid of the creeping wood, I am afraid of the furtive trees, Hiding behind them, memories, Ready to spring, to clutch, to tear, Wait for me there.
I Woke: —
Night, lingering, poured upon the world
Of drowsy hill and wood and lake
And the breeze accompanied with hushed fingers
On the birches.
Gently the dawn held out to me
A golden handful of bird’s-notes.