Willow

by
 And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, 
In the cool nursery of the young century.
And the voice of man was not dear to me, But the voice of the wind I could understand.
But best of all the silver willow.
And obligingly, it lived With me all my life; it's weeping branches Fanned my insomnia with dreams.
And strange!--I outlived it.
There the stump stands; with strange voices Other willows are conversing Under our, under those skies.
And I am silent.
.
.
As if a brother had died.

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