The Midst of Our Joys
In the midst of our joys the dead are buried,
hardly a cry from the air is heard,
blossoms bend to their secret passions, crickets sing…
where is death who stands in the midst of our joys?
He is unknown, though sometimes a chord will
wander there seeming to know him, would describe him:
here on the bay he walks alone.
There is his sombre back and there is the sea
towards which he often looks, across which
he sometimes points. Passion dies there,
and the death we know. He stands between, on the beach,
near the roistering birds, hearing the tide among our joys.