Anita Fitch

EARTH, I dare not cling to thee

Lest I should lose my precious soul.

’Tis not more wondrous than the fluff

Within the milkweed’s autumn boll.

Earth, shall my sacred essences

But sink into thy senseless dust?

The springtide takes its way with them—

And blossoms blow as blossoms must.

Earth, I swear with solemn vow,

I feel a greatness in my breath!

The grass-seed hath its dream of God,

Its visioning of life and death.