The caribou do not need a reason to go where they are going,neither does the river.But when I go to see the caribou,when I go to walk with the river,Others ask me why.
THE new moon hangs like an ivory bugleIn the naked frosty blue;And the ghylls of the forest, already blackenedBy Winter, are blackened anew.The brooks that cut up and increase the forest,As if they had never knownThe sun, are roaring with black hollow voicesBetwixt rage and a moan.But still the caravan-hut by the holliesLike a kingfisher gleams between:Round the mossed old hearths of the charcoal-burnersFirst primroses ask to be seen.The charcoal-burners are black, but their linenBlows white on the line;And white the letter the girl is reading
The sudden April heatStretches itselfUnder the smooth, leafless branchesOf the beech-tree.And lies lightlyUpon the great patchesOf purple and white crocusWith their panting, wide-open cups.A clear windSlips through the naked beech boughs.And their shadows scarcely stir.But the pine-trees beyond sighWhen it passes over themAnd presses back their needles,And slides gently down their stems.It is a languor of pale, south-starting sunlight