If the woodlands open behind
And I wait carefully, I will
See her upon the dusty road.
She, in the latest afternoon,
Will come past, to cause a brighter
Eclipse, and a deeper shadow.
And then, she is gone down.
A slow sun crawls away, and she
Hurrys to briars, of the stream.
Ever the eyes of the living,
Must be set upon the seasons.
The calendar of day and night.
Her gift of fire I’ll gravely bring,
Down through the woods of evening:
A mission that night shares with day.
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