Verse 21

A mote in the blue face of God,
That is how he saw it then,
The dark-plumed raptor hanging like grim death
Over the green-gold pasture;

A tune for a cricket chorus,
That is how he played it then;
The departure of a dogwood flower
On a clear flowing current;

A high summer day of sadness,
That is how he sees it now;
The bliss that followed their angry passion
They both knew was not enough;

Peace and love.