Was there a wind? Tap . . . . . tap . . . Night pads upon the snow With moccasined feet, And it is still . . . . so still . . . An eagle's feather Might fall like a stone. Could there have been a storm, Mad-tossing golden mane on the neck of the wind -- Tearing up the sky, loose-flapping like a tent about the ice-capped stars? Cool, sheer and motionless, The frosted pines Are jewelled with a million flaming points, That fling their beauty up in long white sheaves Till they catch hands with stars. Could there have been a wind That haled them by the hair, And blinding Blue-forked Flowers of the lightning In their leaves? Tap . . . . tap . . . Slow-ticking centuries . . . Soft as bare feet upon the snow . . . Faint . . . . lulling as heard rain upon heaped leaves . . . So silence builds her wall about a dream impaled. |