poem for pastors

she must go back, she said
out of the deep and the dark
if i were very sure
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
under a spreading chestnut tree
when the wind works against us in the dark
little park that i pass through
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
i cannot always feel his greatness
the pale day drowses on the western steep
have you heard
it was a tall young oysterman
stern cold man