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Wednesday, April 24, 2019

The hawk comes

Evening Hawk:

His wing 
Scythes down another day, his motion 
Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear 
The crashless fall of stalks of Time. 
The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error. 
Look! Look! he is climbing the last light 
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under 
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings 
Into shadow. 

Robert Penn Warren.


April 24, 2019 | Permalink


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