In the Northern Near-Sight

In the North it rains, clouds drop, A wind, so old and fusty, And streams that water the roots Gather thrice memory and gone.

Leaves by the river fall down, Leaves of autumn that weave, Found along the silky green; There rest—against the bank, Matter shaken and wide.

That birth of renewal casts far, Crafts without condition, wind— In nothing but hours libertine; And gather in the eyeful.

• Wallace Stevens