It is true, I never assisted the sun materially in his rising

But     I often did better     
 
I sat     and     grew    
 
ticking     forward     the passing day    
 
A man     without     end     
 
setting     the grass     
 
making     the pines and hickories     
 
pushing up through the embankment
 
pushing out     from dry sticks
 
which had seemed to be dead
 
stirring     the glassy surface of the pond
 
my     out-of-the-way     I am
 
unfolding     amid the mountains
 
the     I am     blowing     through
 
woods     without     stopping      
 
whirled along like leaves     run wild
 
Now     more alone than ever
 
my     I am     cockcrowing
 
to fill the pauses         
 
clear and shrill for miles
 
reaching up to your     sills
 
under your windows     breaking through 
 
into your cellar     rubbing      
 
against the shingles for want of room