End-day's rain falling silently surprises
The brown birds of tomorrow's morning boughs.
Bow down, rain, passing those wings; they are your
Earthly ascending siblings of a subtler
Divinity than ours. Remark those hours
Of sleep as you remark the earth you meet.
In death they still sing, not in muttering
Miracle, but in that mute principle
Of all ends. They merely rest from their dreams
In the morning, in their boughs of thought-weaved
Leaves of heavenly mind, as a mystery
Disclosed under clouds. Fall, rain, and as you
Fall, revere that revery, which dreams of all.
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