Is it not enough to lean on the blue air of mountains?
Is it not enough to rest with your mate at timber-line, in bushes that hug the rocks?
Must you fly through mad waters where the heaped-up granite breaks them?
Must you batter your wings in the torrent?
Must you plunge for life or death through the foam?
THE PINE AT TIMBER-LINE
What has bent you,
Warped and twisted you,
Torn and crippled you?—
What has embittered you,