There are no stars to-night But those of memory. Yet how much room for memory there is In the loose girdle of soft rain. - Hart Crane

And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies’ dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

His thoughts, delivered to me
From the white coverlet and pillow, I see now, were inheritances— Delicate riders of the storm.