Authors:
  • I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
    A point outside the glittering current;
    My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
    At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
    My mind moves in more than one place,
    In a country half-land, half-water.
    I am renewed by death, thought of my death,
    The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
    The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
    What I love is near at hand,
    Always, in earth and air.

    Theodore Roethke, “The Far Field”