Now let the draughtsman of my eyes be done marking the line of petal and of hill.
Let the long commentary of the brain be silent.
Evening and the earth are one, and bird and tree are simple and stand still.
Now, fragile heart swung in your webs of vein, and perilous self won hardly out of clay, gather the harvest of last light, and reap the luminous fields of sunset for your bread.
Blurs the laborious focus of the day and shadow brims the hillside slow as sleep.
Here is the word that, when all words are said, shall compass more than speech.
The sun is gone; draws on the night at last; the dream draws on.
