The poem
And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, In the cool nursery of the young century. And the voice of man was not dear to me, But the voice of the wind I could understand. But best of all the silver willow. And obligingly, it lived With me all my life; it's weeping branches Fanned my insomnia with dreams. And strange!--I outlived it. There the stump stands; with strange voices Other willows are conversing Under our, under those skies. And I am silent...As if a brother had died.