Time and the bell have buried the day,T. S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton"
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us, tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Fingers of yew be curled
Down upon us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.