The Secret Splendour

  Poems


 

"The trees grow dangerous at eight"—

The gloomy branches drop

Their pointing: paths the eye knew straight

Suddenly stop.

 

O trust no tree in the moon—

Great arms will tear

Your heart and make its tiny tune

Spread everywhere.

 

A dark tree looms between

Yourself and you,

And, in that gap of the unseen,

Time never flew.


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