The sky is the thin, strong expanse of a God,

And the trees are lines of black Hindus

Praying in black shrivelled attitudes.

The grass is a priest in dream-gold cloth,

Lying on his back, hard with years of thought-spinning.

The lateral-gray, snarled clouds over him

Are the thoughts he has solemnly woven.

The slender lagoon holds the laughter of a child

With his lips to a huge, full cup.

A fan of smoke, in the long, green-white reverie of the horizon,

Slowly curls apart.

So shall I rise and widen out in the silence of air.

An old man runs down a little yellow road

To an out-flung, white thicket uncovered by morning.

So shall I swing to the white sharpness of death.