A birch tree lies beneath the water of a lake, and the speaker speaks to it as if it has drowned. It is more than a reflection but less than a living tree: its pale limbs gleam upward, and its dark leaves look like a drowned woman’s hair. Cut off from spring, birds, wind, and forest, it has been forgotten by the living world. The mood is hushed, eerie, and sorrowful. Only the moon seems to grieve, slipping a silver shroud of light over the tree. Calling it a “poor suicide” turns the birch into a tragic, beautiful figure—buried in water rather than earth, and quietly mourned by the night.
The Birch in the Lake — Summary
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!