by Robert Penn Warren

    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.