When the amber sky of evening rests its weary head upon the hillside
To capture a fleeting look at the eastern stars,
Then I climb to the brook that rests noncommittally over the hill
And listen to the sounds of the unadulterated dusk.

The night people come like obscene shadows on drawn curtains
To drink the coolness of the waters, or curse the stinginess of the skies;
And I would count them one by one
And know them by their hour, and their place.

The air is what I love at day’s ending;
For it carries with it all the morning’s dew,
And I can breathe it into every pore I own
And cheat the splendor of the proud and boastful dawn.