by Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962)
This woman cannot live more than one year.
Her growing death is hidden in a hopeless place,
Her death is like a child growing in her,
And she knows it, you see it shine in her face.
She looks at her own hands and she thinks 'In a year
These will be burnt like rags in a crematory.
I shall not feel it. Where I? Where I? Not anywhere.'
It is strange, it gives her face a kind of glory.
Her mind used to be lazy and heavy her face,
Now she talks all in haste, looks young and lean
And eager, her eyes glitter with eagerness,
As if she were newly born and had never seen
The beauty of things, the terror, pain, joy, the song,
– Or is it better to live at ease, dully and long?
