Sauveterre

WE have come to the end of the world, or the world’s beginning,
Above the fields of lavender and thyme,
Above the stunted vines, the crouching, withered olives,
To ancient chaos, where the bare hills climb
In crags that cut the sky, and echo to the wheeling buzzards’ cry.

And the feet that have come to the end of creation falter,
And the voice dies upon the wind that blows
From the abyss beneath the last sheer stony buttress,
The western bluff that hides — what no one knows
Of emptiness; for who will dare
Look over the edge of life, and find nothing there?

We have come to the end of the world, and have dared the venture —
The fields of Paradise are spread below.
Chaos is put behind and to the far horizon
The level, sun-steeped fields and vineyards go,
With neat array of willow trees.
Like small, round, emerald hives to house celestial bees.