Private Services for Dylan Thomas, Theodore Roethke

The death of song’s accomplished in the air,
And earth again has feathers. Certain sounds
Tumble, uprooted, through the empty miles
And lodge somewhere, it may be; but the skies darken
And winter from the north of time drifts in
And chokes up all but silence.
I have seen
Enough; seen the marvelous plumage; heard
A thousand birds bursting their throats with what
They could not save, and heard the harmonies
That could not save them. But all pattern ends
At the light’s edge; and all climates are
Killing: and what renewal is, is not
Clear to the weathered eye.