Unsnack your snood, madanna, for the stars

Are shining on all brows of Neversink.

Already the green bird of summer has flown

Away. The night-flies acknowledge these planets,

Predestined to this night, this noise and the place

Of summer. Tomorrow will look like today,

Will appear like it. But it will be an appearance,

A shape left behind, with like wings spreading out,

Brightly empowered with like colors, swarmingly,

But not quite molten, not quite the fluid thing,

A little changed by tips of artifice, changed

By the glints of sound from the grass. These are not

The early constellations, from which came the frst

Illustrious intimations—uncertain love,

The knowledge of being, sense without sense of time.

Take the diamonds from your hair and lay them down.

The deer-grass is thin. The timothy is brown.

The shadow of an external world comes near.