The poem
I
Fires in the dark you build; tall quivering flames In the huge midnight forest of the unknown. Your soul is full of cities with dead names, And blind-faced, earth-bound gods of bronze and stone Whose priests and kings and lust-begotten lords Watch the procession of their thundering hosts, Or guard relentless fanes with flickering swords And wizardry of ghosts.
II
In a strange house I woke; heard overhead Hastily-thudding feet and a muffled scream... (Is death like that?) ... I quaked uncomforted, Striving to frame to-morrow in a dream Of woods and sliding pools and cloudless day. (You know how bees come into a twilight room From dazzling afternoon, then sail away Out of the curtained gloom.)
III
You understand my thoughts; though, when you think, You're out beyond the boundaries of my brain. I'm but a bird at dawn that cries 'chink, chink'- A garden-bird that warbles in the rain. And you're the flying-man, the speck that steers A careful course far down the verge of day, Half-way across the world. Above the years You soar ... Is death so bad? ... I wish you'd say.