It is at twilight mostly that things want words, Clouds on the west and trees against them black, The evening star that has again come back, The hill-fields and the high wind that herds The wild geese 'til they hardly seem to be birds, But torn leaves from the blown book of night, Closed without any clue to tomorrow's light. Yet it is not what men but trees could say That matters most, for men speak but of themselves. A star -- and many come now by tens and twelves -- Could talk of eternity, or trees of the way Their roots find life in the unliving clay. Hills could talk of the might of their amassing, And as for clouds, who knows so much of passing? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD'S BEING by HAYDEN CARRUTH CONTRA MORTEM: THE WOMAN by HAYDEN CARRUTH A POEM FROM BOULDER RIDGE by JAMES GALVIN NOT OUR GOOD LUCK by ROBINSON JEFFERS DEAD LEAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SOUVENIR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |