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Poem by Theodore Roethke
The small birds swirl around; The high cicadas chirr; A towhee pecks the ground; I look at the first star: My heart held to its joy, This whole September day. The moon goes to the full; The moon goes slowly down; The wood becomes a wall. Far things draw closer in. A wind moves through the grass, Then all is as it was. What rustles in the fern? I feel my flesh divide. Things lost in sleep return As if out of my side, On feet that make no sound Over the sodden ground. The small shapes drowse; I live To woo the fearful small; What moves in grass I loveЧ The dead will not lie still, And things throw light on things, And all the stones have wings.
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