The evening slowly changes vests,
Held by old trees in serried strand;
You look, and from you break these lands –
One heaven-bound, and one that sets –
That leave you unbelonging now,
Not quite as sure of endless time,
Not quite as dark as dumbest house:
The stuff of stars that each night climbs.
Unravel life upon its loom,
So anxious, huge, and ripe it'll grow;
Soon limited, and soon you'll know
How both in stone and star you'll bloom.