The trees are still; no vesper breeze inquires
Of any forest sentinel the way,
Through thick green veils descending from the spires,
Toward some fulfillment at the end of day.
The skies are still; no fleet of clouds in motion,
Intent on course, in earnest, graceful flight
Across the broad and deep celestial ocean,
Lends tempo to the overture to night.
But as the glow recedes, to end all seeing,
The dimmest, faintest, lightest pulsing star,
Released from all the hours of non-being,
Triangulates the space from here to far:
The glimmering message being sent to me,
Finds too a window high above the sea.
Castle · Poems