In regard to their own movement The stars we track have no inkling. They're just burning. Is the willow less in winter? God's a far cry and busy Counting dead ants, dead stars. In regard to its own movement the willow tree Knows less and less. Now and then now and then I forget what I am saying To myself, often When you touch me, Even if we are just wandering down this street On the surface of a planet Turning through the fire. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE FOR THE BURIAL OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE ARMADA; A FRAGMENT by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: NOVEMBER by EDMUND SPENSER CRADLE SONG (TO A TUNE OF BLAKE'S): 1 by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE |