Poplars against a mountain
Seem frequently to me
To be little-windowed cities
And sun-waves on the sea.
Perhaps dead men remember
Those beckonings of fire,
Waves that have often crumbled
And windows of desire ...
Another year and some one,
Standing where I now stand,
Shall watch my tree rekindle,
From ancient sea and land--
The beckoning of an ocean,
The beckoning of a town,
Till the sun's behind the mountain
And the wind dies down.
