We know it is there, though withdrawn from our eyes. It
is there.
The sun is yet hot on its grassblades, the grassblades are still,
The molten blue of the sky is dissolved through its air
And the waiting hush of its noontide no whisper shall fill.
Shall we enshrine it discreetly in temperate minds,
Say, “It was thus, and we shall remember it so”?
Light we support for an instant shrivels and blinds
Who shall look once too often, and rashly, on fire and the
snow.
And if we return, is it shameful account we shall render,
Turning our eyes from each other, shading the face?
Or shall we be two of that handful unsoiled by surrender
Who return unabashed and with spoils to the passionate
place?
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