Robert Bly, “Poem Against the British”
The wind through the box-elder trees
Is like rides at dusk on a white horse,
Wars for your country, and fighting the British.
I winder if Washington listened to the trees.
All morning I have been sitting in grass,
Higher than my eyes, beneath the trees,
And listening upward, to the wind in the leaves.
Suddenly I realize there is one thing more:
There is also the wind through the high grass.
There are palaces, boats, silence among white buildings,
Iced drinks on marble tops, among cool rooms;
It is good also to be poor, and listen to the wind.