Evening Hawk

    From plane of light to plane， wings dipping through

    Geometries and orchids¹ that the sunset builds，

    Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow， riding

    The last tumultuous avalanche² of

    Light above pines and the guttural gorge³，

    The hawk⁴ comes. His wing Scythes⁵ 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 hieroglyphics⁶.  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 axis⁷， or history

    Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.