The little biplane that has the river-meadow for landing-field <br />And carries passengers brief rides, <br />Buzzed overhead on the tender blue above the orange of sundown. <br />Below it five troubled night-herons <br />Turned short over the shore from its course, four east, one northward. <br /> Beyond them <br />Swam the new moon in amber. <br />I don't know why, but lately the forms of things appear to me with time <br />One of their visible dimensions. <br />The thread brightness of the bent moon appeared enormous, unnumbered <br />Ages of years; the night-herons <br />Their natural size, they have croaked over the shore in the hush at sundown <br />Much longer than human language <br />Has fumbled with the air: but the plane having no past but a certain future, <br />Insect in size as in form, <br />Was also accepted, all these forms of power placed without preference <br />In the grave arrangement of the evening. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Holt<br /><br />Robinson Jeffers<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-machine/
