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A Burning Green Tree
I do not know much about her,
But I think she is an old, forgotten lady,
Still, unexciting,
Didactic as she often seems for me,
And at times almost preposterous.
So I seldom think of her
Who reminds me of things we choose to forget—
Unless it’s a hazy April night
Smoked out by a lonely pipe.
She had witnessed many a fire—
Kings rose and fell,
Struggled, and were consumed.
Passed on the mantle of temporal powers
With each of their distended desire.
And the chafing golden ring
Crowned a frigid pile of pyre.
Cities razed and restored
Were Constructed with old timbers—
Yet undone with another new, ruthless fire
Into ashes, into the earth,
Which is already the womb for new cinder.
She had possessed many a pursuer—
Benevolent pastors, remorseless rulers,
Brave sailors and warriors,
Bankers and beggars,
And prominent men of letters.
They had bathed her in truest honor,
Thatmade men prostrate whom her virtues inspired.
Andthus they gained mercy, hope, and valor
Andin their backs grew a certain straightened pillar
Tothen walk upright, arrected
Bythe absolute paternal care.
Butthe honor, grace, and splendor
Wereall devoured in a flicker,
Conquered
Byan immense, preconscious horror—
“‘Tis gone! ‘Tis gone! ‘Tis gone!”
The dim sacred woods,
Enlightened by a fluorescent dawn.
And the conciliatory sylvan shades,
Dissected by blades of surgical rays.
And I must say—
I have neither faith to believe
Nor courage to resist and resent.
I have a tongue sweetened, an ear dampered,
And a nostril inflamed to every corner;
I have a diseased lung to filter,
Before I may hold my breath and endure
A singular adventure.
But I have seen myself in remorse without dirge,
Without prayers.
And how should I suspire?
Amid this mass arson
And its scathing air,
In which the lady I barely knew,
Died in a cloak of fire.
A Burning Green Tree
I do not know much about her,
But I think she is an old, forgotten lady,
Still, unexciting,
Didactic as she often seems for me,
And at times almost preposterous.
So I seldom think of her
Who reminds me of things we choose to forget—
Unless it’s a hazy April night
Smoked out by a lonely pipe.
She had witnessed many a fire—
Kings rose and fell,
Struggled, and were consumed.
Passed on the mantle of temporal powers
With each of their distended desire.
And the chafing golden ring
Crowned a frigid pile of pyre.
Cities razed and restored
Were Constructed with old timbers—
Yet undone with another new, ruthless fire
Into ashes, into the earth,
Which is already the womb for new cinder.
She had possessed many a pursuer—
Benevolent pastors, remorseless rulers,
Brave sailors and warriors,
Bankers and beggars,
And prominent men of letters.
They had bathed her in truest honor,
Thatmade men prostrate whom her virtues inspired.
Andthus they gained mercy, hope, and valor
Andin their backs grew a certain straightened pillar
Tothen walk upright, arrected
Bythe absolute paternal care.
Butthe honor, grace, and splendor
Wereall devoured in a flicker,
Conquered
Byan immense, preconscious horror—
“‘Tis gone! ‘Tis gone! ‘Tis gone!”
The dim sacred woods,
Enlightened by a fluorescent dawn.
And the conciliatory sylvan shades,
Dissected by blades of surgical rays.
And I must say—
I have neither faith to believe
Nor courage to resist and resent.
I have a tongue sweetened, an ear dampered,
And a nostril inflamed to every corner;
I have a diseased lung to filter,
Before I may hold my breath and endure
A singular adventure.
But I have seen myself in remorse without dirge,
Without prayers.
And how should I suspire?
Amid this mass arson
And its scathing air,
In which the lady I barely knew,
Died in a cloak of fire.
