How can the village dead remain so still...
Surely they tingle with the winey air,
When the skies riot and the sunsets flare
And all the world becomes a flaming hill.
Surely the driest dust must turn and thrill
When these wild breezes sweep out all despair--
And lakes are bluest, pools are starriest where
The streaming heavens overflow and spill.
Oh, were it I that lay like any clod,
Though buried under rock and gnarled tree,
I would arise, and, through the clinging sod,
Go struggling upward, passionate and proud;
Laugh, with the winds and mountains watching me,
And dance in triumph on my crumbling shroud.