OUR wish is to think of nothing but happiness. Of only The world's great emptiness. How bright, Rain-washed, the pebbles shine! A few high leaves Of birch have golden gone. Ah, the heart leaps That soon all earth will be of gold: Gold birch, gold beech, gold maple. That Is its own delight. Later, nothing visible Except black conifers will clamber Up the first white of ridge, then the crag's blank sun-blaze of snow Can it be that the world is but the great word That speaks the meaning of our joy? - Robert Penn Warren
`Altitudes and Extensions: 1980-1984'