being but men, we walked into the trees
afraid, letting our syllables be soft
for fear of waking the rooks,
for fear of coming
noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.
if we were children we might climb,
catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,
and, after the soft ascent,
thrust out our heads above the branches
to wonder at the unfailing stars.
out of confusion, as the way is,
and the wonder, that man knows,
out of the chaos would come bliss.
that, then, is loveliness, we said,
children in wonder watching the stars,
is the aim and the end.
being but men, we walked into the trees.