ISSUE: Summer 1943
Slow-falling through this amber light,
The silver and uncertain rain
Bestows confusion on the sight
Wherein no common thing is plain,—
Wherein the oak and elm we see
Are less—and more—than what they were,
Not elm and oak now, but the Tree,
Most strangely chrismed and astir
With the near-utterance of the word
That trembles on the edge of sound,
The syllable we nearly heard,
And lost again, and have not found. . . .
