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I, LONG BEREFT
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Winter birds upon a winter bough! I think I know what message you bring, Who hopes to stay me now, I, long bereft of any feathered thing, Of any joy that soars on any wing! For if you say, then this bright reckoning, Now dialed in sun on snow, Foretells the lark, and the one more burgeoning: O chickadees, I know You are yourselves a covenant with spring, You selves the feathered promises you sing!
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Never tell him you have seen A vision, here between These ice-bowed branches and the moon. He would as soon Laugh you down — call you mad, Say you had Been touched by witches’ wine — That your seeing was a sign Of aberration. Let him go — let him go — Never telling what you know. Never tell him you have stood At night, blinded in this wood. Let him see what he can see, The barn — the ice-coat on this tree, The roof’s gable, triangular, obtuse, The square on its hypotenuse; Point out to him the thin white line The frozen river shows, the scaled design In a crystal fallen on his sleeve. These are easy to believe. Lead him slowly — slowly so — Never telling what you know.
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IPSO JURE
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Judge not the owl as master, cause
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