This northern sky

The sky is the daily bread of the eyes.

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Lord, I have loved Your sky,

Be it said against or for me,

Have loved it clear and high,

Or low and stormy

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To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -

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Glory be to God for dappled things

for skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow

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Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky

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From far, from eve and morning

And yon twelve-winded sky,

The stuff of life to knit me

Blew hither: here am I.

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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.

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I turned and looked back up at the sky,

Where we still look to ask the why

Of everything below.

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The sky is torn across

This ragged anniversary

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The gossiping of friendly spheres,

The creaking of the tented sky,

The ticking of Eternity.

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Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table

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The sky is silent too,

Hard as granite and as fixed as fate.

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And over all the sky — the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.

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Slowly the night blooms, unfurling

Flowers of darkness, covering

The trellised sky, becoming

A bouquet of blackness.