He comes in the twilight— Evening after evening; Year after year we have watched him. The last rays of the sun Seem held in his transparent wings Whose quills themselves are spread as glimmering rays. He sweeps round the field With dignity and mystery, With the pride befitting a bird of legend, As though he remembered that a goddess with an owl Was worshipped in Ancient Greece. He seems very old, Old with the antiquity of shadowy barns, The antiquity of hollow trees, The antiquity of Night. |