Yet another poem, titled “The Twilight.” I don’t think it’s nearly as good as some other stuff I’ve written, but I had to write it, simply because of the first stanza. So, to give credit where credit is due, the brilliant Edith Wharton devised the first stanza herself in the novel Summer.

The Twilight

In the clear light that is all shadow,
Fields and woods were outlined with an unreal precision;
Then the twilight blotted them out,
And the little house turned grey and spectral
Under its wizened apple branches.

In the deep shadow that is all but invisible,
Outlines cease to exist, and precision becomes less;
Then the dawn outshone them all,
And the little invisible lines came into view
With the wizened man’s truth.

In the roaring flames submerged in the sea,
Treasure and waste lay side by side without worry;
Then man came to clean them out,
And the little treasure guardian turned fearful and dismal
After it lost its pearl.

In the sanctity and safety that knows no protection,
One small line stands alone with an unreal precision;
Then, like the death of life, it was overtaken,
And the little line turned smaller and more invisible
Next to the twilight.