Unsentimental
The frozen tarn, so dark below, so bright
Across its surface, can’t be happy, sad
Or feel emotion, either black or light.
Above it rime-trimmed saplings cannot gad
About in frolics, move in mourning or
Have feelings harbored in their swaying hearts
Because there is no pulse-beat at the core
Of trees no matter how hoar frosted parts
Of them may be. These youthful branches, limbs
And leafless twigs are beauty with no need
To gratify themselves with moods. Night dims
Them; frost and moon can’t make their white souls bleed.
They don’t have souls. They can’t feel any pain.
….They never have pale dreams or pray in vain.