He hears the silence shattered by the laughter of the loon.




From Exile

Call to me, call to me, fields of poppied wheat!
Purple thistles by the road call me to return!
Now a thousand shriller throats echo down the street,
And I cannot hear the wind camping in the fern.

Little leaves beside the trail dance your way to town,
Till you find your brother here who remembers yet;
For though a river runs between and the bridge is down,
I've a heart that's roaming and a soul that won't forget.

A sun squats on the house-tops, but his face is hard and dry;
A rain walks up and down the streets, but her voice is harsh--
Sunlight is a different thing where the swallows fly,
And rain-tongues sing with sweeter voice when they're on the marsh.

Once a thousand bending blades stoop to let me pass,
When I sped barefooted through your crowding lines--
Whisper to me gently in the language of the grass,
How I watched the crows of night nest among the pines.

Still the golden pollen smokes, silver runs the rain,
Still the timid mists creep out when the sun lies down--
Oh, I am weary waiting to return to you again,