"Seven P. M.

Slow twilight bird,
Suspended, as you sail, along the nearer edge
Of nightfall and the beechwood, are you heard
In places past my ears? Are you a wedge--

Slow tapered wing--
Driving into the outer walls of time?
Eternity is not so strange a thing,
At evening, when the towers that were to climb--

Slow searching beak--
Lie level with your progress in the soft,
Dark-feathered dusk, and there are known to speak
Gentle, wild voices from the dark aloft."

--Mark Van Doren, in: Anthology of Magazine Verse 1925