The wind blew words along the skies,

   And these it blew to me

Through the wide dusk: “Lift up your eyes,

   Behold this troubled tree,

Complaining as it sways and plies;

   It is a limb of thee.

“Yea, too, the creatures sheltering round—

   Dumb figures, wild and tame,

Yea, too, thy fellows who abound—

   Either of speech the same

Or far and strange—black, dwarfed, and browned,

   They are stuff of thy own frame.”

I moved on in a surging awe

   Of inarticulateness

At the pathetic Me I saw

   In all his huge distress,

Making self-slaughter of the law

   To kill, break, or suppress.