If you leave me to fog and hollowed stone,
I will persist at dawn to head alone
to fix the bending orchard limbs with props
and taste the heaping pears the light wind drops.
Each empty day, I will sit down to feed
a brood of quail abandoned in the weed,
will climb a hill to watch the warm sun wane,
will rest all winter long and not complain,
regard the groves that shine with silver frost,
their beauty withered, and their greenness lost.
Then like the turtle with his patient heart
under the snow awaiting spring to start,
all winter long, I will lie left to dust;
all winter long, a wire bleeding rust.