The Birch in the Lake

You lie there. Too still beneath the waters, More than a reflection, Less than a tree: Your limbs gleam upward, Your dank leaves are like the hair of a drowned woman. No longer do you know the touch of spring, Nor will the birds build their round nurseries Between your white fingers. The wood has forgotten you, The breezes have forgotten. But the moon mourns. Slipping a silver shroud about you Pitifully, As you lie, still beautiful. In your unhallowed grave. Poor suicide!