Here's a wonderful winter poem by Robert Penn Warren
Evening Hawk
Robert Penn
Warren - 1905-1989
From plane
of light to plane, wings dipping through
Geometries
and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the
peak's black angularity of shadow, riding
The last
tumultuous avalanche of
Light above
pines and the guttural gorge,
The hawk
comes.
His wing
Scythes down
another day, his motion
Is that of
the honed steel-edge, we hear
The
crashless fall of stalks of Time.
The head of
each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error.
Look! Look!
he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither
Time nor error, and under
Whose eye,
unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.
Long now,
The last
thrush is still, the last bat
Now cruises
in his sharp hieroglyphics. His wisdom
Is ancient,
too, and immense. The star
Is steady,
like Plato, over the mountain.
If there
were no wind we might, we think, hear
The earth
grind on its axis, or history
Drip in
darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.
From New and
Selected Poems 1923-1985 by Robert Penn Warren,
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