I am the one whom ringdoves see
        Through chinks in boughs
        When they do not rouse
        In sudden dread,
But stay on cooing, as if they said: 
        'Oh; it's only he.'

I am the passer when up-eared hares,
        Stirred as they eat
        The new sprung wheat,
        Their munch resume
As if they thought: 'He is one for whom
        Nobody cares.'

Wet-eyed mourners glance at me
        As in train they pass
        Along the grass
        To a hallowed spot,
And think: 'No matter; he quizzes not
        Our misery.'

I hear above: 'We stars must lend
        No fierce regard
        To his gaze, so hard
        Bent on us thus, --
Must scathe him not, He is one with us
        Beginning and end.