A poem by Marjorie Meeker

I said, ‘It is your voice I hear,”
But it was the clear
Curving Of bells at twilight.
I said, “It is you who breathe, who stir,”
But it was the whir
Of beating wings,

It was the stir
Of dazzled shadowy things
That come before night.

Sweet as the thinned
Light silver of flutes,
Swift as the edge of wind,
You come who sheathe
Yourself in brightness,
Who wreathe
Your sharp whiteness
In curving lines of gold.
The stunned light
Recedes to let you pass:
The hard
Clear day is marred,
Like a Cracked glass.

Let it be you
After the gold ebbing of hours
And the hot noon sweetness;
After the languor
And the bright dropped flowers.