From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds, Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow, riding The last tumultuous avalanche of Light above pines and the guttural gorge, The hawk comes. His wing Scythes down another day, his motion Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear The crashless fall of stalks of Time. The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error. Look! Look! he is climbing the last light Who knows neither Time nor error, and under Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings Into shadow. Long now, The last thrush is still, the last bat Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics. His wisdom Is ancient, too, and immense. The star Is steady, like Plato, over the mountain. If there were no wind we might, we think, hear The earth grind on its axis, or history Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.
Robert Penn Warren - 1905-1989
I shall build me a house where the larkspur blooms In a narrow glade in an alder wood, Where the sunset shadows make violet glooms, And a whip-poor-will calls in eerie mood. I shall lie on a bed of river sedge, And listen to the glassy dark, With a guttered light on my window ledge, While an owl stares in at me white and stark. I shall burn my house with the rising dawn, And leave but the ashes and smoke behind, And again give the glade to the owl and the fawn, When the grey wood smoke drifts away with the wind.