Memo of the Ego

Where the cold winds come tramping through the woods And leaves fall like dandruff from the woodland hair Where memory retraced broken stems and seared buds And white mist meanders more than mist upon the air Where the roads have parted and never meet again And what is so seldom is joy, and what might have been Like a pendulum swings from moon to moon. The rain Makes rivers in valleys along side the sniffling nose, keen As birdsong, through the slushing heart, eyes wet still With the wonder of all we take over the stubborn hill All this, all this, the man, the child, clankering thought Life is a promise, and love a wonder so little wrought.