I think the dead are tender. Shall we kiss? — - Theodore Roethke

I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road, As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;
Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,
By pulling off flesh from the living planet;
As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.

Let others probe the mystery if they can. Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will — The right thing happens to the happy man.

Yet if we wait, unafraid, beyond the fearful instant,
The burning lake turns into a forest pool,
The fire subsides into rings of water,
A sunlit silence.