Laughing thorns crackled beneath my kettle: would
They had been able to flame against the dark
Gray, cold sky of a mountain morning,
Mist overhanging the quickened ground;
Trembling with early excitement, chilled, I felt
Darkness in part of my back the earth still kept
Touching, watching the rising sunlight’s
Pure, silent burning among the leaves.
Laurel burns snappily too, as if the same
Fires that gnaw at the fronds of green renown
Cackled over a foolish branch of
Bay crashing, verdant, against my brow.
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