Hill

The grape slips under its crackled leaf.

Yet far beyond the spent seed-pods and the blackened stalks of mint, THE POPLAR IS BRIGHT ON THE HILL.

THE POPLAR SPREADS OUT, DEEP-ROOTED AMONG TREES.

O POPLAR, YOU ARE GREAT AMONG THE HILL-STONES, WHILE I PERISH ON THE PATH AMONG THE CREVICES OF THE ROCKS.

PURSUIT WHAT DO I CARE THAT THE STREAM IS TRAMPLED? THE SAND ON THE STREAM-BANK STILL HOLDS THE PRINT OF YOUR FOOT.

THE HEEL IS CUT DEEP.

You are white, a limb of cypress bent under a weight of snow.

You are splendid, your arms are fire.