anniversary poem

when the wind works against us in the dark
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
which i wish to remark
at midnight
the agony of having too much power
it was the autumn of the year
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
before the solemn bronze saint
it was a tall young oysterman
and still they walked on