The Spike Golden Jubilee Number May 1949
I — Calm Evening
This night alone the pines are still
And the wind will not stir
One bird's light plumage where
It sleeps. And hardly even fall.
From the hedges garbled night-time
Murmurs of song. Clouds
Stand over trees like crowds
Of mourners. Over the near hill climb.
The shattered towers of trees
Beneath the sullen sky
Life, breath and movement die.
The sleeping bird is utterly at peace.