The peacocks cry, the palms spring up like fire,
Their paper leaves and wings toss in the wind
Jeweled and flashing dry; plumes and stars
All are consumed; the stars shine and shine.
Earth is a kind of music, God is its mind;
Solstice and equinox He spins and dreams,
Ringing the changes on His tethered spheres
And gyring constellations; so His sun
Will some time rise, brimming our eyes with tears
To float our souls to heaven: says one.
The other: God, but the grass is burning green
Within its blackness; all the feathered world
Is arched in love over us; Venus is low
And tender; oh tonight, tonight we can fly
Lovely as dust of earth or breath of sky,
To death and back within the wilderness
Of our own hearts; nor will we ever die.
Nor will we ever die, the peacocks cry and cry.