Chapter II

I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill clad
Remembering their soft dress in spring?
Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass?
And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem?
I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,--
They sound so strong for any wind.
But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamed
And I am awkward and ill at ease--
Clothes have a way of telling stories
Even as the bark of trees will tell
Which way the storm winds blow--
I remember when I was young
And scarcely knew that money paid for clothes,
My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leaves
And there were more than I needed;
And my hair was soft and thick,
With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring;
And my body was lithe and vigorous;
When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm,
The least clearing wind set me free again
And I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leaves
Shaking the sunlight into dance.

III

Now I lie awake at night, many nights,
Sometimes when I am ill,
Sometimes when I am well,
And think about money and rents in worn clothes
And feel the hunger of old women and backyard cats
As if it were my own hunger;
And the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaper
And flaps tattered dirty shawls over me,
And my thoughts are bent and old
And I shiver in the dark trying to bless God.
I wonder why God gives Himself to trees
And lets old women starve?
And backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper?
And why certain rich people are as well varnished against cold
As fat beech buds against the frost?
Do you suppose God is a Merchant
And sells this warm lustre from the stars--
Stars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind--
And plans to make a profit from the rich?...
I am not an anarchist
Except in stars.

IV

_When the dawn comes it brings the crows._
_Caw! Caw! Caw! The crows!_
_The crow sleeps east but west he blows_
_To pick some carrion that he knows_
_Caw! Caw! Caw! It blows!_