Upon his voice. It echoed, it was gone:
The quiet and the quiet dark went on.
21
He rushed into the wood. He struck and stumbled
On hidden roots. He groped and scratched his face.
The little birds woke chattering where he fumbled.
The stray cat stood, paw lifted, in mid-chase.
There is a windless calm in such a place.
A sense of being indoors—so crowded stand
The living trees, watching on every hand: