dots-menu
×

Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Henry Bellamann

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

High Trees

Henry Bellamann

THERE is imprisoned day up there:

The even flow of level lights,

The passing of the wilder rains,

The perfect circle of the world—

These, and the longer ride with sun,

The earlier tryst with stars,

The virgin silver of the moon!

It must be well to hear

The broken song of trampled dust,

The long complaint of streets,

Soothed to uncertainty—

Earth’s weaving flutter laid aside

Like a folded fan.

See how deeply their lifted breasts

Are stirred!

See how the highest leaf

Fingers a star!