How calmly does the olive branch

  observe the sky begin to blanch :

without a cry , without a prayer ;

  with no betrayal of despair .

Sometime while light obscures the tree ,

  the zenith of its life will be :

        gone , past , forever .

And from thence , a second history will commence :

a chronicle no longer gold ,

  of bargaining with mist and mold ;

and finally the broken stem ,

  the plummeting to earth , and then

an intercourse not well designed

  for beings of a golden kind

whose native green must arch above

  the Earth's obscene , corrupting love .

And still the ripe fruit and the branch

  observe the sky begin to blanch :

without a cry , without a prayer ;

  with no betrayal of despair .

Oh, courage ! Could you not as well

  select a second place to dwell ?

Not only in that golden tree

  but in the frightened heart of me ?

Tennessee Williams (Night of the Iguana)