No weather surmounts her season,
Now would I blow the sunshine from your eyes;
For whatever comes,
In storm or maudlin reason'
Nothing dies of itself;
Fortunes are for the future,
Though always unredeemed...
Dead then, are those desires,
Skinned-alive and violet as dawn,
We wander unrepentant,
I am of the mind that made me,
Weak as the lamb with but one baa.
Allowed to take breath,
To know the weather in many meadows,
To graze in the good green grass,
suffering wildflowers beneath.
No, I would not deny the day,
Although at night I sleep,
IN the deep dark pastures,
Surrounded by all the dead shadows of fence,
Farmhouse, and barn and by what alarm
Would I tell you! That ll the earth
Gorge me, the,
give me all your sorrows,