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.
They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air
As if to break themselves upon its stillness:
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision,
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire
And in grasses that shall not know their weight.
They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
As if frightened at the earth’s nearness,
They seek the high austerity of evening sky
And swirl into its depth.