Crooked, black tree on your little grey-black hillock, ridiculously raised one step toward the infinite summits of the night: even you the few grey stars draw upward into a vague melody of harsh threads. Bent as you are from straining against the bitter horizontals of a north wind, -- there below you how easily the long yellow notes of poplars flow upward in a descending scale, each note secure in its own posture -- singularly woven. All voices are blent willingly against the heaving contra-bass of the dark but you alone warp yourself passionately to one side in your eagerness. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTENTMENT, AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY THE JOURNEY ONWARDS by THOMAS MOORE TEMPEST by ANITA CONCHITA ALLMON A PREPARATORY HYMNE TO THE WEEK OF MEDITACIONS UPON, & DEVOUT EXERCISE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |