by Mark Van Doren
How far it is to peace, the piper sighed, The solitary, sweating as he paused. Asphalt the noon; the ravens, terrified, Fled carrion thunder that percussioin caused.
The envelope of earth was powder loud; The taut wings shivered, driven at the sun. The piper put his pipe away and bowed. Not here, he said. I hunt the love-cool one,
The dancer with the clipped hair. Where is she? We shook our heads, parting for him to pass. Our lady was of no such trim degree, And none of us had seen her face, alas.
She was the very ridges that we must scale, Securing the rough top. And how she smiled Was how our strength would issue. Not to fail Was having her, gigantic, undefiled,
For homely goddess, big as the world that burned, Grandmother and taskmistress, field and town. We let the stranger go; but when we turned Our lady lived, fierce in each other's frown.
