Summer ending, and in the late afternoon
Light no longer grows hazy, but stays clear, hard.
The trees around the house are full of the wind

And the wind is always from the North, churning
The lake to a frenzy, wave on wave crashing
Against the rocks in wild frothy explosions,

Wave on wave caving whitely over and foaming
Up the smooth slope of the beach. At night, in bed,
I listen to the waves and wind-thrashing trees,

Those soundings of the darkness beauty itself,
Ceaseless and uncomforting. And where I lie
I know that to age is not so much to sense

Time passing as to hear, in wind, histories
Of prospects and hopes irrevocably gone,
Of affections undermined by reticence

And virtues conceded to weakness or chance.
Toward dawn I sleep, then wake to day. The fire lit,
I read and work. But altering as the light

Alters with the hours, I can feel coming now
A massive presence, an accumulation
Of time and loneliness, long in gathering,

Which, like the wind's deep rising over water,
Will rise about me till I hear it always,
Steady and full, till I do not hear it at all.