Though
the little clouds ran southward still, the quiet
autumnal cool of the late September evening
seemed
promising rain, rain, the change of the year,
the angel of the sad forest, a heron flew over
with
that remote ridiculous cry, " Quawk, " the cry
that seems to make silence more silent. A dozen
flops
of the wing, a drooping glide, at the end of the
glide, the cry, and a dozen flops of the wings.
I
watched him pass on the autumn-colored sky; beyond
him Jupiter shone for evening star,
the
sea's voice worked into my mood, I thought " No
matter what happens to men...the world's well made
though. "
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