The tall trees have been in my heart all day,
And the snow crusted over the rusty needles,
And the cold high stars,
And daylight stealing up softly
To thrust a gray nose at a shadow
New to the woods—
A shadow at last unpursued;
And the bleak Spokane, beating against its icy bank
Like the wings of a bird, half broken,
The blood-rhythm beat of a burial drum;
And you, lying there,
Lying there with the sky on your breast
Like a cluster of camass,
Sharing with trees their imperceptible breath.
And nothing, nothing at all, can tell me—
Not the snow, nor the stars, nor the buried pine-needles,
Nor the wounded bird in the water—
Not one can say
By what black trail you came,
Shy doe with doom in your gentle eyes;
Or of what monstrous doubt
You died.