Winter Leaves

WINTER, and the swarthy look of noon.
Later when the sun came out a wind
Swept down through the ditches in my head.
The hills stood in the sun, the air was wine
And I walked out a moment towards the woods
Before the hour faded at my back.

The streetways of the morning lay in mud
But farther on the world was blue and white,
And in the armpits of an oak I saw
In copper-colored leaves the deathbed wish.
A hunter disappeared between the trees
And all the hemlocks stood, confronting me.

Hunters, men who knew what thing they sought,
Struck my envy. Action simplifies.
The hilltops cried for climbers; I would climb,
Would climb till torn, had they not stopped me there,
The copper leaves that left me vaguely sad,
The brittle laugh of oak trees in my ears:

Visions meant for old remembering men
Or children, faces pressed at windowpane.
Another one could take the tender day
That freshened him and neatly drink it up.
I handled all the joy of crisp cold woods
Like some rare china-piece none dare to touch.

Not more in woods than town is freedom free;
The drinking songs, the conversations, clocks,
Babbled on beneath the frozen creek.
The footprints freeze upon the frightened heart.
Hollows whistled: hills were growing black;
Lamps lit, and, empty-handed, I walked back.