East of me， west of me， full summer.

    How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.

    Birds fly back and forth¹ across the lawn looking for home

    As night drifts up like a little boat.

    Day after day， I become of less use to myself.

    Like this mockingbird，

    I flit from one thing to the next.

    What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four？

    Tomorrow is dark.

    Day-after-tomorrow is darker still.

    The sky dogs are whimpering.

    Fireflies are dragging the hush² of evening up from the damp grass.

    Into the world's tumult³， into the chaos⁴ of every day，

    Go quietly， quietly.