At one the wind rose,
And with it the noise
Of the black poplars.
 
Long since had the living
By a thin twine
Been led into their dreams
Where lanterns shine
Under a still veil
Of falling streams;
Long since had the dead
Become untroubled
In the light soil.
There were no mouths
To drink of the wind,
Nor any eyes
To sharpen on the stars’
Wide heaven—holding,
Only the sound
Long sibilant—muscled trees
Were lifting up, the black poplars.
 
And in their blazing solitude
The stars sang in their sockets through
the night:
`Blow bright, blow bright
The coal of this unquickened world.'

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