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Evening slowly changes into garments
held for it like a silhouette of old trees;
you watch: and the land breaks away from you,
one part rising toward heaven, the other one falling;


and they leave you not really belonging anywhere,
not really as dark as that silent house,
and surely not really as sworn to eternity
as that which becomes a star each night and rises—


and they leave you wordlessly to untangle
your life, yearning and vast and ripe,
so that, now earthbound and now all-embracing,
there alternates in you stone and star.