These hills are sandy. Trees are dwarfed here. Crows br Caw dismally in skies of an arid brilliance, br Complain in dusty pine-trees. Yellow daybreak br Lights on the long brown slopes a frost-like dew, br Dew as heavy as rain; the rabbit tracks br Show sharply in it, as they might in snow. br But it’s soon gone in the sun — what good does it do? br The houses, on the slope, or among brown trees, br Are grey and shrivelled. And the men who live here br Are small and withered, spider-like, with large eyes. br br Bring water with you if you come to live here — br Cold tinkling cisterns, or else wells so deep br That one looks down to Ganges or Himalayas. br Yes, and bring mountains with you, white, moon-bearing, br Mountains of ice. You will have need of these br Profundities and peaks of wet and cold. br br Bring also, in a cage of wire or osier, br Birds of a golden colour, who will sing br Of leaves that do not wither, watery fruits br That heavily hang on long melodious boughs br In the blue-silver forests of deep valleys. br br I have now been here — how many years? Years unnumbered. br My hands grow clawlike. My eyes are large and starved. br I brought no bird with me, I have no cistern br Where I might find the moon, or river, or snow. br Some day, for lack of these, I’ll spin a web br Between two dusty pine-tree tops, and hang there br Face downward, like a spider, blown as lightly br As ghost of leaf. Crows will caw about me. br Morning and evening I shall drink the dew.