I know very well, goddess, she is not beautiful
As you are: could not be. She is a woman,
Mortal, subject to the chances: duty of
Childbed, sorrow that changes cheeks, the tomb—
For unlike you she will grow grey, grow older,
Grey and older, sleep in that small room.
She is not beautiful as you, O golden!
You are immortal and will never change
And can make me immortal also, fold
Your garment round me, make me whole and strange
As those who live forever, not the while
That we live, keep me from those dogging dangers—
Ships and the wars—in this green, far-off island,
Silent of all but sea’s eternal sound
Or sea-pine’s when the lull of surf is silent.
Goddess, I know how excellent this ground,
What charmed contentment of the removed heart
The bees make in the lavender where pounding
Surf sounds far off and the bird that darts
Darts through its own eternity of light,
Motionless in motion, and the startled
Hare is startled into stone, the fly
Forever golden in the flickering glance
Of leafy sunlight that still holds it. I
Know you, goddess, and your caves that answer
Ocean’s confused voices with a voice:
Your poplars where the storms are turned to dances;
Arms where the heart is turned. You give the choice
To hold forever what forever passes,
To hide from what will pass, forever. Moist,
Moist are your well-stones, goddess, cool your grasses!
And she—she is a woman with that fault
Of change that will be death in her at last!
Nevertheless I long for the cold, salt,
Restless, contending sea and for the island
Where the grass dies and the seasons alter:
Where that one wears the sunlight for a while.
Archibald MacLeish, from Collected Poems 1917–1982, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1985.