The way to quiet not his own,
The light at rest on tree and stone,
The high leaves falling their turns,
Spiraling through the air made gold
By their slow fall. Bright on the ground,
They wait their darkening, commend
To coming light the light they hold.
His own long comedown from the air
Complete, safe home again, absence
Withdrawing from him tense by tense
In presence of the resting year.
Blessing and blessed in this result
Of times not blessed, now he has risen.
He walks in quiet beyond division
In surcease of his own tumult.
Wendell Berry, A Timbered Choir
The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997: 1984, 5.
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