Plant quiet like a seed within your heart
And let it grow and split that organ through.
Let the fierce root rive all such walls apart,
Let the dark flourish, let your words be few.
Out of the earth and dreaming in the sun
Though the years burgeon, it is well to know,
After the lightning and the wolves that run
In the tense mind, the quietude of snow.
Thirst, if you thirst, for all the elder things –
Lie with the worm against the forest’s root.
Eat of the granite, plumb the deeper springs,
Burn with the acrid and the bitter soot
Packed in a puffball. In that leathern cover
Taste the last taste: compound of life and lover.
Eiseley, Loren. “Compound.” All the Night Wings, 63. New York: TIMES BOOKS, 1979.