Possession

Because this ground is mine it presses firmer

And softer up against my morning feet.

The grass ever is whispering as I walk. 

The trees lean a little, and the spring,

There at the head of the road, leaps out to meet me.

Some afternoons I think these hundred acres,

Knowing I lie on the mountainside in the sun,

Curl over as if to fold me in; then, rising, 

I smile and go, and they are level again.

But all of this is nothing to the night

I climbed that path and came into my own. 

The darkness—my own darkness—was a warm

Still wind upon my face, until I reached

The topmost meadow, open to the sky.

One step, and I stood naked among stars—

White stars, that clustered closer and larger down;

Closer, until they entered my two eyes. . . . 

When, deep inside, they burst without a sound.