I wonder if the word shall break

Forth from my lips before I die,

And naked secrets then unmake

The childborn guilt that gave so wry

And sour a smirk to brilliant years,

So that my heart, a dam of pain,

Shall burst its banks, and when it clears

Give leave to tramp bright earth again.

If this should ever be, O God,

How eagerly I’ll clutch the warm

Sweet flesh of living, kiss the sod,

And go to bed with hale and storm.

And all the joys that mate and mate

Have ever shared shall be my fate.

June, 1947