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The Machine

 The little biplane that has the river-meadow for landing-field
And carries passengers brief rides,
Buzzed overhead on the tender blue above the orange of sundown.
Below it five troubled night-herons Turned short over the shore from its course, four east, one northward.
Beyond them Swam the new moon in amber.
I don't know why, but lately the forms of things appear to me with time One of their visible dimensions.
The thread brightness of the bent moon appeared enormous, unnumbered Ages of years; the night-herons Their natural size, they have croaked over the shore in the hush at sundown Much longer than human language Has fumbled with the air: but the plane having no past but a certain future, Insect in size as in form, Was also accepted, all these forms of power placed without preference In the grave arrangement of the evening.

Poem by Robinson Jeffers
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