II—WRITTEN IN A YEAR WHEN MANY OF MY PEOPLE DIED

I have begun to count my dead. They wave green branches Around my head, Put their hands upon my shoulders, Stand behind me, Fly above me— Presences that love me. They watch me daily, Murmuring, gravely, gaily, Praising, reproving, readily. And every year that company Grows the greater, steadily. And every day I count my dead In robes of sunrise, blue and red.