II Written in a Year When Many of My People Died
I have begun to count my dead.
They wave green branches
Around my head,
Put their hands upon my shoulders,
Stand behind me,
Fly above me—
Presences that love me.
They watch me daily,
Murmuring, gravely, gaily,
Praising, reproving, readily.
And every year that company
Grows the greater, steadily.
And every day I count my dead
In robes of sunrise, blue and red.