Through stalled air,
    Unshadowed light,
    A few leaves fall
    Of their own weight
    My woods oppressive,
    The sky gray.
    It begins in mist
    Almost at the ground
    And rises forever.
    The poplars file silent,
    Almost natural
    But not quite,
    Almost eternal
    But not quite.

    Here is what
    Has always been.
    Here is what
    Will always be.
    Even in me,
    The eternal quest
    Returns in rest,
    Even to the slightest of
    My interrogations,
    A brush of wind now
    Licks my face and answers.

    My head is loud
    With the labour of words.
    My tongue hungers
    For the sweet of speech.
    But it is in silence
    That my hope is,
    And my peace.
    A song whose lines
    I cannot make or sing
    Sounds Nature's quiet
    Like a millennial root.

Emily Dickinson's axiom
Emily Dickinson's Axiom...