Three songs

Red skies above a level land and thoughts of thee;
sinking sun on reedy strand, and alder tree.
Only the heron sailing home with heavy flight!
Ocean afar in silent foam, and coming night!
Dwindling day and drowsing birds, oh, my child!
Dimness and returning herds, memory wild.

Down the blue night th'unending columns press
in noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
now tread the far south, or lift rounds of snow
up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.
Some pause in their grave wandering, comradeless,
and turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
as who would pray good for the world, but know
their benediction empty as they bless.
They say that the Dead die not, but remain
near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these
in wise majestic melancholy train,
and watch the moon, and the still raging seas,
and men, coming and going on the earth.

To the lean clean land, to the last cold height
you shall come with a whickering breath
from the depths of despair or the depths of delight
stript stark to the wind of death.

And whether you're sinless, or whether you've sinned,
it's useless to whimper and whine,
for the lean clean blade of the cutthroat wind
will slit your weasand and mine.