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Iris DeMent
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All Is Sold
All is sold, all is lost, all is plundered,
Death's wing has flashed black on our sight,
All's gnawed bare with sore want
and sick tonging—
Then how are we graced with this light?
By day there's a breath of wild cherry
In the city, from woods none espies;
At night new and strange constellations
Shine forth in the pale summer skies,
And these houses, this dirt, these mean ruins,
Are touched by the miracle, too:
It is close, the desired, despaired of,
That all longed for, but none ever knew.
[1921]
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