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Poem	At one the wind rose, And with it the noise Of the black poplars. Long since had the living By a thin twine Been led into their dreams Where lanterns shine Under a still veil Of falling streams; Long since had the dead Become untroubled In the light soil. There were no mouths To drink of the wind, Nor any eyes To sharpen on the stars' Wide heaven-holding, Only the sound Long sibilant-muscled trees Were lifting up, the black poplars. And in their blazing solitude The stars sang in their sockets through the night: `Blow bright, blow bright The coal of this unquickened world.'
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