When foxes eat the last gold grape,
And the last white antelope is killed,
I shall stop fighting and escape
Into a little house I'll build.

But first I'll shrink to fairy size,
With a whisper no one understands,
Making blind moons of all your eyes,
And muddy roads of all your hands.

And you may grope for me in vain
In hollows under the mangrove root,
Or where, in apple-scented rain,
The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.

by Elinor Morton Wylie

Comments (5)

I enjoyed this lovely poem.
A musical flow of rhyme built in a quatrain of three stanzas. Sylva.
When foxes eat the last gold grape! ! Nice piece of work. Thanks for sharing.
Is it that the poetess is attempting to foretell us about what will happen at the end of all destructive activities of human, on the nature, I wonder. Enjoyed reading and Congrats for being the poem of the day.
I enjoyed reading this poem..... thanks for posting👍