All my faiths have forsaken me;
Burn in white and delicate red,
Brings the sturdy grass to birth.
I who was content to be
But a silken-singing tree,
But a rustle of delight
In the wistful heart of night–
I have lost the leaves that knew
Touch of rain and weight of dew.
I looked neither up nor down–
Have left me room to see the sky;
Stars above and earth below.
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