​Peace
by Sara Teasdale

Peace flows into me
As the tide to the pool by the shore;
It is mine forevermore,
It ebbs not back like the sea.

I am the pool of blue
That worships the vivid sky;
My hopes were heaven-high,
They are all fulfilled in you.

I am the pool of gold
When sunset burns and dies,--
You are my deepening skies,
Give me your stars to hold.

"Wings." Image by TJ Gehling via Creative Commons/Flickr.

Heaven’s lips! I dreamed
of a page in a book containing the word bird and I
entered bird.
Bird grinds on,
 
grinds on, thrusting against black. Thrusting
wings, thrusting again, hard
banks slap against it either side, that bird was exhausted.
 
Still, beating, working its way and below in dark woods
small creatures
leap. Rip
 
at food with scrawny lips.
Lips at night.
Nothing guiding it, bird beats on, night wetness on it.
A lion looks up,
Smell of adolescence in these creatures, this ordinary
night for them. Astonishment
 
inside me like a separate person,
sweat-soaked. How to grip.
For some people a bird sings, feathers shine. I just get this this.
 
--Anne Carson (2005)