The wind blew words along the skies,
        And these it blew to me
Through the wide dusk: "Lift up your eyes,
        Behold this troubled tree,
Complaining as it sways and plies;
        It is a limb of thee.

"Yea, too, the creatures sheltering round -
        Dumb figures, wild and tame,
Yea, too, thy fellows who abound -
        Either of speech the same
Or far and strange—black, dwarfed, and browned,
        They are stuff of thy own frame."

I moved on in a surging awe
        Of inarticulateness
At the pathetic Me I saw
        In all his huge distress,
Making self-slaughter of the law
        To kill, break, or suppress.