Wind stirred very little most of the night, and the crack of a dry leaf underfoot as I went out to fetch the morning paper seemed an almost violent intrusion on the quiet. Thereafter I stepped more carefully.
Sunday Verse
Alone
by Yvor Winters
I, one who never speaks,
Listened days in summer trees,
Each day a rustling leaf.
Then, in time, my unbelief
Grew like my running:
My own eyes did not exist!
When I struck I never missed!
Noon, felt and far away,
My brain is a thousand bees.