THE alien, tortured mind goes back,
Recalls those quiet hills, the falling apricots, the quail.
Returns to that still valley in the night,
The white thorn apples in the dark,
The wild white clover in the sun.
There quiet and changeless in those pastures,
The warm white oat fields and the cold sweet corn,
Ends the black spirit’s eyeless flight,
Ends the black fever, and the fever’s light,
Dies in the slow leaf-searching sound of rain.
Under the white stars and the silence,
Walking the cold grass of those hills,
The dry leaf lives, the monster dies,
The savage heart that knows its own
Grows still.