Nerveless Peace
Our hatreds and our loves belong to life
And not to death. When we are silhouettes
Of living things like an abandoned wife,
Like outlines left when silken minuets
Are sent to meet the guillotine, and like
Those ghostly images against the stone
In Nagasaki, or the faint Third Reich
Unresurrected dead who cannot moan,
Then we will not be sufferers of loss
Or celebrants of beauty. We will be
Far less than numbnesses. A sere shrunk moss
Will have more soul than our deficiency.
Where we are travelling, we will have our rest.
….There blank and coolest void are coalesced.