“
Now reading
Slow Evenings
On those blue nights I shall sit down and search,
In the old way of a song,
A record of the traveller who went
Among the trees, until a glade of birch
Shone in the smooth dark, upward bent,
Above and over, locking him to peace.
I would go with one who has sought for swans
And heard their singing, and brought home with him
An echo of the white which brings release
Sparely on darkness in which terrors swim
Like wheedlings: "Will, Will, poor Will!"
And of that ending find myself in sleep.
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