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...THE BOOK OF MARTYRS by EMILY DICKINSON WESSEX HEIGHTS by THOMAS HARDY ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS: PART 2: 25. THE VIRGIN by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 13. TO AUTHOR OF MEMOIRS OF HOUSE OF BRANDENBURGH by MARK AKENSIDE |