1342

1341

The sound of the storm

Does not bend the wind

Or crack the hearts of trees--

As the faith of ignorance,

A noise resultant merely--

So name your fetters freedom,

And cry your country honor:

The tree stands still, the air unmoved.

1340

1339

1338

1337

1336

1335

1334

1333

1332

1331

1330
In day is night pent,
Leashed to the shadows
Under tree or cloud
Or creviced redoubt--
Ever telling the whip's taut length
In parting and closing with its fellows
By the sun's hand,
Till the turning world slip word.

1329

1328

1327

1326

1325
The sun is strange to light the day,
Shadow to pattern walks,
Air as blue as eyes
To make a breath.
The arrangement, not condition,
No essence wants addition.

1324

1323