How calmly does the olive branch
observe the sky begin to blanch :
without a cry , without a prayer ;
with no betrayal of despair.
Sometime while light obscures the tree ,
the zenith of its life will be :
gone , past , forever .
And from thence, a second history will commence :
a chronicle no longer gold ,
of bargaining with mist and mold ;
and finally the broken stem ,
the plummeting to earth , and then
An intercourse not well designed
for beings of a golden kind
whose native green must arch above
the Earth's obscene , corrupting love .
And still the ripe fruit and the branch
observe the sky begin to blanch :
without a cry , without a prayer ;
with no betrayal of despair .
Oh, courage ! Could you not as well
select a second place to dwell ?
Not only in that golden tree
but in the frightened heart of me ?
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