How came this troubled one to stray With fire and song in the wind's way? Indifferent and dumb and sweet, The seasons fall about his feet. Frail flames are set behind his eyes, And under his ribs his heart makes moan Like a pent bird who throbs and dies. He walks in the windy night alone. And who would know if he should sing Whose song is less than the murmuring Of the wind full of the ruin of spring? And who could say if he had flown Like a flame blown out or a bird upblown? Or if his heart cries out in pain Who hears the cry through wind and rain? He wanders east. He wanders west. Where will he ever come to rest With that fire blowing in his brain And that bird grieving in his breast? |