I would like to decorate this silence,
but my house grows only cleaner.
What old December’s bareness everywhere
The sky moves in its whiteness
being the color of snow, catching the sun
so [it was], in part at least, golden,
Beneath the sinking moon.
I don’t know the name of this bird,
I saw [it]
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.
When sunset played havoc with bright leaves of alders,
we [were] all sitting here strangely
On top of the sunlight.
The moon and the stars
Suddenly flicker out,
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
My possibles are all packed up . . . still I do not leave.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.