I shall be loved as quiet things
Are loved-white pigeons in the sun,
Curled yellow leaves that whisper down
One after one;
The silver reticence of smoke
That tells no secret of its birth
Among the fiery agonies
That turn the earth;
Cloud-islands; reaching arms of trees;
The frayed and eager little moon
That strays unheeded through a high
Blue afternoon.
The thunder of my heart must go
Under the muffling of the dust-
As my gray dress has guarded it
The grasses must;
For it has hammered loud enough,
Clamored enough, when all is said:
Only its quiet part shall live
When I am dead.
