(I wrote this a long time ago, following several years of pessimism and depression.)

How quietly the night goes gliding by;
How peacefully the might of it doth fill.
There’s not a star up in the far dark sky
But fiery, gleams, and yet is calm and still.
An ocean of sweet grass flows around
The houses on the dimlit street. Some far-
Off bird cheeps, then goes to sleep. She found
In dreams, perhaps, some higher birdlike star
And waking, saw, but knew she dreamed too far,
Yet every height was in her leap-star sound.
I hold her voice; the daring of its bliss
Stirs through my spirit all that I have yearned
For in my blown-out past, and, as I will,
The inner wick of dream to flame is turned.

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