Our divinations,
Mechanisms of angelic thought,
The means of prophecy,
Alert us most
At evening’s one star
And its pastoral text,
When the establishments
Of wind and light and cloud
Await an arrival,
A reader of the text,
A reader without a body,
Who reads quietly:
“Horrid figures of Medusa,
These accents explicate
The sparkling fall of night
On Europe, to the last Alp,
And the sheeted Atlantic.
These are not banlieus
Lacking men of stone,
In a well-rosed two-light
Of their own.
I am the archangel of evening and praise
This one star’s blaze.
Suppose it was a drop of blood …
So much guilt lies buried
Beneath the innocence
Of autumn days.”