It is nothing but the breath of each and every person,
of all the thewy horses and the gulls,
and the horse chestnut in my dreams,
and the great giant in dreams.
Downstairs, the dog snores loudly
into the rug, and the flies, and outside, the rusted fountain
sprays mist into the atmosphere and out; and in
my dreams, I hear my great giant breathing.
Many years ago, on a wooden dock, at Crystal Lake, at Newton,
I peed until the utmost emptying
into the water,
tied to the world by golden string,
When I die, I will be swallowed
but never abolished
as worms are.
Though it will be winter,
the great chestnut remains;
my great giant remains,
and at its root
he finds shelter.
My words become all persons’, theirs mine.
_This_ a cell,
_that_ a bone,
_these_ the stars I cannot see,
which I was
and will be.
Who are you, at night,
watching the long, yellow plains?
What is that thin breeze?