Long-tailed ponies go nosing the pine-lands,

Ponies of Parisians shooting on the hill.

The wind blows. In the wind, the voices

Have shapes that are not yet fully themselves,

Are sounds blown by a blower into shapes,

The blower squeezed to the thinnest mi of falsetto.

The hunters run to and fro. The heavy trees,

The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust,

The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines

Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.

These are the forest. This health is holy,

This halloo, halloo, halloo heard over the cries

Of those for whom a square room is a fire,

Of those whom the statues torture and keep down.

This health is holy, this descant of a self,

This barbarous chanting of what is strong, this blare.

But salvation here? What about the rattle of sticks

On tins and boxes? What about horses eaten by wind?

When spring comes and the skeletons of the hunters

Stretch themselves to rest in their first summer’s sun,

The spring will have a health of its own, with none

Of autumn’s halloo in its hair. So that closely, then,

Health follows after health. Salvation there:

There’s no such thing as life; or if there is,

It is faster than the weather, faster than

Any character. It is more than any scene:

Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging.

Piece the world together, boys, but not with your hands.