The Quarry

Elder James Olson

When first frail stars were softly blown
To phosphorescent bloom, I stood
Within the shadow of a wood,
Where herded thorn-trees lifted bare
Black antlers in the purple air
And cowered in the glowing cold.

By the dim pasture and dim fold
I saw them stand like shadowy deer.
I saw them in the smoldering frost.
I saw the first snow like a dust
Waver upon the wind, and sow
Through the wide purple air
The bitter harvestry of frost.
Only the ghostly leaves of frost
Bloom from the cold seeds of snow.

Out of what night, O wind, was this
Strange quarry given to the air,
And given to the wind’s keen kiss
Over the white woodland where
The thorn-trees stand like hunted deer,
And the bleak seeds of silence blow?