Poets who know no better rhapsodize about the peace of nature, but a well-populated marsh is a cacophony.

There is no peace to be taken/ With poets who are young,/ For they worry about the wars to be fought/ and the songs that must be sung.

In times of peace, when the nature sings, it is hard to distinguish between the various cubs caught in their pure game under the sunlight rain.

Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, Nor time unmake what poets know

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

My peace is gone, my heart is heavy.