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.
