The warmth of it like the warmth of the sun driving
Downward into her heart.
And all those fields
Ready, the earth stretched out upon those fields
Ready, and now the sowers—
What is this thing we know that they have not told us?
What is this in us that has come to bed
In a closed room?
I tell you the generations
Of man are a ripple of thin fire burning
Over a meadow, breeding out of itself
Itself, a momentary incandescence
Lasting a long time, and we that blaze
Now, we are not the fire, for it leaves us.
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