Thin bluish clouds move northeastwards

high up and slowly. Help this soul,

southwest wind of the rainy season,

help this soul be healed

Under bark of the fallen pine

worms have carved fine mazes

delicate circuitous houses.

Maze-makers, help this soul die.

Veins stand netted on the bluish boulder

where rain wore the soft rock down.

Blown rain of many winters,

help this soul turn round.

Shadows of dead branches,

sunlight and dying things,

O wilderness, one bird sings

one note far off in the sunny wind.

Rock was softer than the rain,

tree weaker than the worm. No help for it.

So soul be weak, fail, drift, and blow

with wind through net and maze, and sing

one note once only in the wilderness.