ESCAPE

Now since I cannot make it out: Why people love and lose and die; Why there is agony and doubt, And so much cause to brood and cry; Oh, since I cannot understand God’s will for all the world, and me,— I will go take the wind’s cold hand, And dance a little, foolishly. The hills are green and simple folk; The wind is quick with comrade-calls; White wayside apple-trees, and smoke Of woodfires, and bright waterfalls,— They never bid me understand. They never say, “You, too, must die.” I will go take the wind’s cold hand. God knows, I cannot always cry!