The Turtle The turtle lives, ‘twixt life and death,
In the biodegradable dome,
In hard shells of soft pliability.
She slips into her home,
The curve of oblivion,
The grass under her tiny feet is damp—
From the rain, in dark hours, the night-long—
And the hole that is home is warm.

A constant space, a still-tempered apoplexy,
Her live beauty draws no lines between.

Her lovely indifference to the
Anxiety of passing birds,
Or wind and night,
Lies in the constancy of her lovely way—
Her cloistered universe refusing
To recognize the tempest.

She ranges around,
Glistening skin, old-concealed,
From the sheltering shade.
She lives!

• Marianne Moore