His hand made the outflung motion of a sower And the mate, staring, seemed to hear the slight Patter of fallen seeds on fertile ground, Black, shining seeds, robbed from a black king’s storehouse, Falling and falling on American earth With light, inexorable patter and fall, To strike, lie silent, quicken. Till the Spring Came with its weeping rains, and the ground bore A blade, a shadow-sapling, a tree of shadow, A black-leaved tree whose trunk and roots were shadow, A tree shaped like a yoke, growing and growing Until it blotted all the seamen’s stars. Horses of anger trampling, horses of anger, Trampling behind the sky in ominous cadence, Beat of the heavy hooves like metal on metal, Trampling something down.⁠ ⁠… Was it they, was it they? Or was it cold wind in the leaves of the shadow-tree That made such grievous music?