The Quiet Ones

THEY have a carious wish in life,
All shy and selfish ones —
Whose minds are chilled by winter mists,
Whose hearts are shriveled nuns.

They most desire a narrow grave
Where only one can lie,
No sound except the starred mole’s feet
In earth go creeping by,
Companion to the blind white roots
And alien to the sky. . . .

Make it a meagre grave that they —
Slight things of hollow bone —
May touch dark marl on either side
And know they are alone.

Be still — for every sound rings loud
In thin-walled, empty brains;
Pity them when at night you hear
Hounds go crying in the rains —
They he so restless when hounds go
Crying along the rains.