AT SUNSET

 

World-weary here am I 

watching the slick green of saplings 

at autumn.

The sun, by and by, 

will be just a memory

of another day gone, 

another waste light.

But dark withal 

and so with rained soul

I can make something out

 of the trilling thrushes

 and the crystalline murmur

of ghosts and rivulets:

some truth renewing itself

 unnoticed to the fold, 

revealed only to

the world-weary people 

at sunset.