THE GHOST-TREES
We are the stricken—those who died But did not fall. Once, side by side, We burned and bled— We are the countless standing dead. Not like the Capuchins, cowl-topped, Dried in their cerements, stiff-propped And postured in the charnel gloom Of some deep-caverned chapel-room, But in the full, white light of day We stand—gaunt, naked, gray— Close-locked in death, Yet ever with the breath Of life around us. We can see The quickened green of each young tree, Their bobbing heads Upcrowding at our feet; and beds Of paint-brush and the blue Of lupine. Years renew Their seasons—dust and rain and snow. For us dawns glow, And setting suns transfuse our cold And ashen palor into gold; Moons rise, and then We all are turned to ghosts again.
We are the stricken—those who died But did not fall. Once, side by side, We burned and bled— We are the countless standing dead.
We look upon some mighty fir, Remembering ourselves that were; It was a lightning flash that came, And flame Encircled us. All night The sky was crimson with our light. Day dawned upon the hills—the sun rose red, It saw the dying and the dead, The vast, uncounted dead—and over all, A smoky pall That wavered in the wind. We did not fall— We did not fall, like some—magnificent in strength Who measured out their length, Still smouldering, upon the ash-heaped mat Of earth—we were not burned enough for that.
Years passed Our dried bark cracked—at last It flaked and fell. In high distress We were—gaunt in our nakedness. So have we stood— The gray ghost-brotherhood, We who have burned and bled But did not fall—the standing dead.