The Return

Earth does not understand her child, 
   Who from the loud gregarious town 
Returns, depleted and defiled,
   To the still woods, to fling him down.

Earth can not count the sons she bore: 
   The wounded lynx, the wounded man 
Come trailing blood unto her door; 
   She shelters both as best she can.

But she is early up and out,
   To trim the year or strip its bones; 
She has no time to stand about 
   Talking of him in undertones

Who has no aim but to forget, 
   Be left in peace, be lying thus
For days, for years, for centuries yet,
   Unshaven and anonymous;

Who, marked for failure, dulled by grief,
   Has traded in his wife and friend 
For this warm ledge, this alder leaf: 
   Comfort that does not comprehend.