Classic Poem

Dusk with never a wing to make
A pointed shadow on the grass,
Prepares a darkness that will break
Above you like a dome of glass.

If you had drunk from scented air
Until you breathed yourself alive,
Smoothing your eyes on silver where
The birds that make the twilight dive,

Night would be taut above your head,
And dark, like split glass, purple and blue,
Like twisted iron and splintered lead,
Would not crash down, dispersing you.

And when your body curved to rest,
A rhythm slow as the wing of a gull,
Moving in quiet through your breast,
Might make your slumber beautiful.