The Man Who Drowns
He hangs as an ink-stain, alone on a hill of shadows, Where every bird has given love to the fleeting days, Here where the blue light dies off the edge, beyond
The pine-needle day—before dusk, before life fades, Down to the keys of emptiness that whispers; The slow strangulation of seaweed oceans in the dawn.
He waits, longing for lifeblood to carry home, But the dreams waltz like a pallor swath, unfurled, And so he stands upon the low steep of the silvered night,
Where solitude and beauty of life (love cupped) Conceal each den of grounds and delicate lap, Lines of glorified leaves kiss the lines of demise.
The world is a dim outline—no touch—no sound;
Sweet breath and thirsting sigh shall die. But he remains to push to infinite, the final thoughts.
- Edna St Vincent Millay