Weaves on the strands of hunger, death, and love.
I see it all, I hear it all, and lie
Under my swaying poplars, and the sky
Is fretted with frail leaves. The mortal dream
Is in my heart: I hear the night-hawk’s scream
Shatter the silver silences, I hear
The owl’s clear tremolo rise over-clear—
The mouse’s blood along his veins has made
His love-note lovelier and the night afraid
Of beauty’s dreadful secret—and I know