WATCHER

     He is the watcher underneath the stars.
He dresses the dome of night with strings of long
     Meditations. He seldom moves. If he does,
It is to become acquainted with nightly creatures
     And now with hibernators who are creeping
Out of their snowy sleep, their habitations
     Which, perilously, just kept them warm enough.
The watcher is hardy and burly but even he

     Rejoices in his own silence at the change
Apparent everywhere as the glacier winter
     Slides away, as the woken grass speaks
And a chorus of thrushes and blackbirds sings the hours.
     This watcher joins them in his meditations:
But he thinks of a shadow only just beginning
     To creep over grass dressed by the sun.
...