My peace is broken, my white gentle sleep
So softly drifted on, so cool caressed
By morning’s rose and evening’s amethyst,
Jarred by the wind’s breath, troubled by the sweep
Of the fox’s brush, the rabbit’s light-foot leap.
On my own rhythms lulled as on a breast,
In habit resting as the heart-beats rest,
From change and danger I lay buried deep.
Had I a shield, a refuge, I might shun
This deed of arson from the distant sun,
This green-clad burning, big with crimson shame,
Big with its own quick death, heavy and hot
And headlong in my nerves. But I can not.
A sky-thrown torch has kindled me to flame.
(Max Eastman)
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Based on Topics: Death & Dying Poems, War & Peace Poems, Habit PoemsBased on Keywords: light-foot, green-clad, arson