The cricket's cry and the locust's whirr, And the note of a bird's distress, With the rasping sound of the grasshopper, Clung to the loneliness Like burrs to a trailing dress.
So lonely, too, so more than sad, So droning-lone with bees-- I wondered what more could Nature add To the sum of its miseries . . . And then--I saw the trees.
Skeletons gaunt that gnarled the place, Twisted and torn they rose-- The tortured bones of a perished race Of monsters no mortal knows, They startled the mind's repose.
And a man stood there, as still as moss, A lichen form that stared; With an old blind hound that, at a loss, Forever around him fared With a snarling fang half bared.
I looked at the man; I saw him plain; Like a dead weed, gray and wan, Or a breath of dust. I looked again-- And man and dog were gone, Like wisps of the graying dawn. . . .
Were they a part of the grim death there-- Ragweed, fennel, and rue? Or forms of the mind, an old despair, That there into semblance grew Out of the grief I knew?
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