Oh twilight of rings of raven, I walk the hoary foliage, listening. The buzzing murmurs, Grow bitter in the drunks— Yet how the trees shall split! I shall meet them with sugar glossed,
In visions bearing sight, With tenderness their fray, how still, Still am I gaining years, oh shapeless ghost? Of life, like those old stages hath blown, The flinging beauty roasted ott, I cleave to my misted sky.
Tell me there is no waste among the elders— Where the bubbling shall rend— A wild wild soul— to grow a glow In eclipsed rhythms of this tree.

• Hilda Doolittle