by Denise Levertov
But we have only begun to love the earth. We have only begun to imagine the fullness of life.
How could we tire of hope? So much is in bud.
How can desire fail? We have only begun to imagine justice and mercy,
Only begun to envision how it might be to live as siblings with beast and flower, not as oppressors.
Surely our river cannot already be hastening into the sea of nonbeing?
Surely it cannot drag in the silt all that is innocent?
Not yet, not yet–there is too much broken that must be mended,
Too much hurt that we have done to each other that cannot yet be forgiven.
We have only begun to know the power that is in us if we would join our solitudes in the communion of struggle.
So much is unfolding that must complete its gesture, so much is in bud.
Denise Levertov (October 24, 1923–December 20, 1997)