Witter Bynner

From “Presences”

THERE is a dead loon in the camp tonight killed by a clever fool,

And down the lake a live loon calling….

The wind comes stealing, tall, muscular and cool,

From his plunge where stars are falling.

The wind comes creeping, stalking,

On its night-hidden trail,

Up to the cabin where we sit playing cards and talking.

And only I, of them all, listen and grow pale.

He glues his face to the window, addressing only me:

Talks to me of death, and bids me hark

To the hollow scream of a loon, and bids me see

The face of a clever fool reflected in the dark.

That loon is farther on the way than we are.

It has no voice with which to answer while we wait.

But it is with me, and with the evening star;

Its voice is my voice, and its fate my fate.