By the sublime surface, A tune rises quick in thrush, Carrying the evening through dense growth; And beads of dew do rest soft, Across lengthening shadows of glad ground. I think of life as embraces stride, On sun-warmed winds, we retract. The refuge grows quickly, space opens, And trills uplift the storm between— Self requires space infinite; This longing blooms open, soft fingers of grace— Here—behold richly diverging worlds!

• Lorine Niedecker