O Luminous Late Day!

O luminous late day !
The air's enchanted.
The white stork flying by
is half asleep
and the swallows
cross one another—wings
sharp-stretched
to the gold air—
and away
through the benign
distance of evening,
flying, dreaming.

And there is one
returns like the arrow—wings
sharp-stretched
to the sombre air—
bound for the roof
and its black corner there.

The white stork,
like a pot-hook,
tranquil and ungainly
so absurd !
looms on the belfray.