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Denise Levertov - To Live In The Mercy Of God
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To lie back under the tallest 
oldest trees. How far the stems 
rise, rise 
               before ribs of shelter 
                                           open! 


To live in the mercy of God. The complete 
sentence too adequate, has no give. 
Awe, not comfort. Stone, elbows of 
stony wood beneath lenient 
moss bed. 


And awe suddenly 
passing beyond itself. Becomes 
a form of comfort. 
                      Becomes the steady 
air you glide on, arms 
stretched like the wings of flying foxes. 
To hear the multiple silence 
of trees, the rainy 
forest depths of their listening. 


To float, upheld, 
                as salt water 
                would hold you, 
                                        once you dared. 
          
                  . 


To live in the mercy of God. 


To feel vibrate the enraptured 


waterfall flinging itself 
unabating down and down 
                              to clenched fists of rock. 
Swiftness of plunge, 
hour after year after century, 
                                                   O or Ah 
uninterrupted, voice 
many-stranded. 
                              To breathe 
spray. The smoke of it. 
                              Arcs 
of steelwhite foam, glissades 
of fugitive jade barely perceptible. Such passion— 
rage or joy? 
                              Thus, not mild, not temperate, 
God’s love for the world. Vast 
flood of mercy 
                      flung on resistance.
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