At Great Pond
The sun, rising,
Scrapes his orange breast
On the thick pines,
And down tumble
A few orange feathers into
The dark water.
On the far shore
A white bird is standing
Like a white candle –
Or a man, in the distance,
In the clasp of some meditation –
While all around me the lilies
Are breaking open again
From the black cave
Of the night.
Later, I will consider
What I have seen –
What it could signify –
What words of adoration I might
Make of it, and to do this
I will go indoors to my desk –
I will sit in my chair –
I will look back
Into the lost morning
In which I am moving, now,
Like a swimmer,
So smoothly,
So peacefully,
I am almost the lily –
Almost the bird vanishing over the water
On its sleeves of night.
At Great Pond
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