I am finished, but you live on.

And the wind, crying and moaning,

rocks the house and the clearing,

not each pine alone,

but all the trees together,

with the vast distance, whole,

like the hulls of vessels,

moored in a bay, storm-blown.

And it shakes them not from mischief,

and not with an aimless tone,

but to find, for you, from its grief,

the words of a cradle-song.