When foxes eat the last gold grape, <br />And the last white antelope is killed, <br />I shall stop fighting and escape <br />Into a little house I'll build. <br /> <br />But first I'll shrink to fairy size, <br />With a whisper no one understands, <br />Making blind moons of all your eyes, <br />And muddy roads of all your hands. <br /> <br />And you may grope for me in vain <br />In hollows under the mangrove root, <br />Or where, in apple-scented rain, <br />The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.<br /><br />Elinor Morton Wylie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/escape-2/
