The deer are in the oak wood, Parting the grey ferns, And a hermit thrush sings From the boughs of the black birch. The air is crisp with seed-pods, With dreams both light and heavy; As I tread on the fallen leaves, Each step a disappearance.

Blessings on this morning, With eyes full of dew, I shall remember the quiet Among the murmuring pines, The shadows are long, but gold. Everything is hushed, set free— But the deer vanish still, like thoughts, With the whispers of the light.

• Robert Graves