Having New England fathers in my blood,

Thinking I lived but wisely and not well,

I sought ancestral trees for what they tell,

And ripped the long root up, but got no good.

My ghostly counsellors were not set free.

Whose mortal voice is mine the echo of?

Which face of all, now dark, now bright with love,

Springs to attention in the memory?

Who walked in sun, a worshipper of light?.

Who caught the snowflake star upon the sleeve?

Who chose the world for danger? By whose leave

Was lore like this not down in black and white?

And no one answers, yet in every limb

I feel the blood that finds the legend true.

Passionate patience was his wisdom, too,

And every question makes me sure of him.

No living hand remembers now his hand,

And yet my younger brother wears his face.

He is established in a starry place;

In living bodies; in his native land.

He sleeps. He has the mountains for a bed.

Vermont has washed him clean with stony streams.

The Berkshire pines are talking in his dreams,

And all his dreams are running through my head.