Incense of the wild, Incense of earth fulfilled, ready to sleep The stupefied dark slumber of the bear All winter, underneath a frozen star. Jack Ellyat felt that turning of the year Stir in his blood like drowsy fiddle-music And knew he was glad to be Connecticut-born And young enough to find Connecticut winter Was a black pond to cut with silver skates And not a scalping-knife against the throat. He thought the thoughts of youth, idle and proud.

Since I was begotten My father’s grown wise But he has forgotten The wind in the skies. I shall not grow wise.

Since I have been growing My uncle’s got rich. He spends his time sowing A bottomless ditch. I will not grow rich.