- Some days my thoughts are just cocoons -- all cold, and dull, and blind,
- They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;
- And other days they drift and shine -- such free and flying things!
- I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.
- My life is a tree,
- Yoke-fellow of the earth;
- By roots too deep for remembrance,
- To stand hard against the storm,
- To fill by Place.
- (But high in the branches of my green tree there is a wild bird singing:
- Wind-free are the wings of my bird: she hath built no mortal nest.)
KARLE WILSON BAKER, The Tree
- The flame of my life burns low
- Under the cluttered days,
- Like a fire of leaves.
- But always a little blue, sweet-smelling smoke
- Goes up to God.
KARLE WILSON BAKER, Blue Smoke