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.    

                                                 S.S. 1960