Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/43

 The warmth of it like the warmth of the sun driving Downward into her heart. And all those fields Ready, the earth stretched out upon those fields Ready, and now the sowers—

What is this thing we know that they have not told us? What is this in us that has come to bed In a closed room?

I tell you the generations Of man are a ripple of thin fire burning Over a meadow, breeding out of itself Itself, a momentary incandescence Lasting a long time, and we that blaze Now, we are not the fire, for it leaves us.