And if her voice can be a mountain-range
Of meaning, one degree less overwhelmed
By all the sky’s appalling disregard,
The paradox of noble pathos held
In such a victory will not provoke
My voice to rest upon the rise of hers.
Oh, I prefer to stay within the screened
And sightless valley of her silence, where
Defeat can have a voice less penitent
Than bubbles breaking on the juice of grapes;
Where breezes carry silver necklaces
Whose clinkings can be heard by child-like ears
Beneath the breathing stress of flower-scents;
Where life descends to moss, and nestles out
In humble ruminations, pebble-framed;
Where brooks, so limpidly self-centered, bring
That peace which is the foe of sluggishness.
The mind may strain against a universe:
The heart prefers more unassuming ways
That lead to glints of greater victories.
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