Not long ago, it seemed the fashion To preach that man was born alone And died that way, in somber tone, As if no one could know one’s passion.

Yes, dreary in our solitude, We sit propped on our wooden chair Our thought, our anguish, every care Trapped at an airless altitude.

But was it ever so, this posing? The infant in his mother’s lap Already imitates her tap Of heart, herself himself composing.

And all our thoughts are woven from Threads bare with crossing times before. We tread upon an earthen floor Mounded by prints already come.

And though shales piled as a cairn May seem locked in their loneliness, Aspens too stiff and mute to bless The neighboring boughs for which they yearn,

Their roots are tangled in their depth, Their weight is pressing all to one, And that is less than we have done Who give and take thought, breath for breath.