The day is great and strong—

But his father was strong, that lies now

In the poverty of dirt.

Nothing could be more hushed than the way

The moon moves toward the night.

But what his mother was returns and cries on his breast.

The red ripeness of round leaves is thick

With the spices of red summer.

But she that he loved turns cold at his light touch.

What good is it that the earth is justified,

That it is complete, that it is an end,

That in itself it is enough?

It is the earth itself that is humanity …

He is the inhuman son and she,

She is the fateful mother, whom he does not know.

She is the day, the walk of the moon

Among the breathless spices and, sometimes,

He, too, is human and difference disappears

And the poverty of dirt, the thing upon his breast,

The hating woman, the meaningless place,

Become a single being, sure and true.