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Fools, fools, fools,
Your blood is hot to-day.
It cools
When you are clay.
It joins the very clod
Wherein you look at God,
Wherein at last you see
The living God
The loving God,
Which was your enemy.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on October 19, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.
You would not think that, lost so young
Here in this outer land,
I still should feel my spirit wrung
And still not understand . . .
Though Grenstone is the name they said,
And though I pack my load
And though my cap is on my head —
What do I care which road?
The reach of peace, the sky, the pines,
Leave me no more perplexed,
In which a memory divines
That bodies, buried, yet arise
Across the reach of all the skies,
Unburied and unvexed.
What and where am I and who?
I can never tell. Can you?
Can a sunset after rain
Or a moonlit wave explain,
Can a willow tell you why
Or a star? No more can I.