This beauty that I see —the sun going down scours the entangled and lightly henna withies and the wind whips them as it would ship a cloud— is passing so swiftly into night. A moon, full and flat, and stars a freight train passing passing it is the sea and not a train. This beauty that collects dry leaves in pools and pockets and goes freezingly, just able still to swiftly flow it goes, it goes.
From Collected Poems by James Schuyler. Copyright © 1993 by James Schuyler. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux . All rights reserved.