They dip their wings in the sunset, They dash against the air As if to break themselves upon its stillness: In every movement, too swift to count, Is a revelry of indecision, A furtive delight in trees they do not desire And in grasses that shall not know their weight. They hover and lean toward the meadow With little edged cries; And then, As if frightened at the earth’s nearness, They seek the high austerity of evening sky And swirl into its depth. This poem is in the public domain. |
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