Willow

And I grew up in patterned tranquility,
In the cool nursery of the young century.
And the voice of man was not dear to me,
But the voice of the wind I could understand.
I liked burdocks and nettles,
But best of all the silver willow.
And, obligingly, it lived
With me all my life; it's weeping branches
Fanned my insomnia with dreams.
And-strange!-I have outlived it.
There the stump stands; with strange voices
Other willows are conversing
Under our,under those skies.
And I am silent...As if a brother had died.