And fear of You begins intelligence:
Does it end there? For sexual love, for food,
For books and birch trees I claim gratitude,
But when I grieve over the unripe dead
My grief festers, corrupted into dread,
And I know nothing. Give us our daily bread.
"A Grace" by Donald Hall, from Old & New Poems. © Ticknor & Fields, 1990
From "The Writer's Almanac"