• The Surveyors
• We found the ends of the land,
• we who walked together, numbering.
• We were tipped, laughing,
• by gales over plain-grasses and hyacinth
• as we marked river valleys
• to cover with our cavalry.
• We were warmed golden
• by sunbeams in pine-thick air
• as we counted forests
• to shaft spearsmen’s arms.
• We were whipped, thrilling,
• by gusts from silent snow peaks
• as we measured mountains rich in ore
• to forge daggers and spearpoints.
• We fell upon the clifftop
• drunk on sea-sweat,
• and you sang.
• You sang our legions seen at once
• from high summits.
• You sang our arms of stout pinewood
• and mountain-vein.
• I do not sing with you.
• I do not sing—
• my breath escapes me.
• The pines sit in their deep roots.
• The peaks rest in their sheets of earth
• laid upon still marrow,
• age over age.