The Correlation
Again that yellow dusk or light alongThe winter hills: again the trees' black clawsWaiting and working by the bridge of space:Again the tower, among tombs a huge tomb;White scattered birds, a black horse in the meads,And the eel-track of the brown stream fringing by.
Would understanding win herself my vote,Now, having known this crisis thirty years,She should decide me why it overwhelmsMy chart of time and history; should declareWhat in the spirit of a man long schooledTo human concept and devotion dear,Upraised by sure example, undefiledBy misery and defeat, still in the sun—What stirs in him, and finds its brother-self,From that late sky. Again that sky, that tower,These effigies and wizardries of chance,Those soundless vollies of pale and distant birdsHave taken him, and from his whirring toilsMade him as far away, as unconcerned,As consonant with the Power as its bare trees.
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