We heard him when the dawn was red
And laughed his plaint away;
But when at noon he filled his flute
And mocked us with his lay,
I asked of Martin anxiously,
For he'd been long away.
We heard his laughter loud and wild,
When mists lay on the Bay;
As twilight fell with furtive flaw
And all the grass turned grey.
At night, we saw the white caps flash
And heard again the loon,
As sodden winds dragged ragged clouds
Across the gibbous moon.
I did not look for Martin more;
Yet I forgave the cry:
You can't be sane in wind and rain,
And know how lost men die.

Taken from "The Rote" by R.A. Parsons