1601: The Lighthouse | Jane Hirshfield
"The Lighthouse"
Jane Hirshfield
Its vision sweeps its one path
like an aged monk raking a garden,
his question long ago answered or moved on.
Far off, night-grazing horses,
breath scented with oatgrass and fennel,
step through it, disappear, step through it, disappear.
you are going to do things/you cannot imagine you would ever do
Jane Hirshfield
Its vision sweeps its one path
like an aged monk raking a garden,
his question long ago answered or moved on.
Far off, night-grazing horses,
breath scented with oatgrass and fennel,
step through it, disappear, step through it, disappear.
you are going to do things/you cannot imagine you would ever do
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