At twilight the swifts have no power, br to hold back that pale blue coolness. br It bursts from throats, a clamour br an outpour that can’t grow less. br br The swifts have no way, high br up there, overhead, of restraining br their clarion cries: ‘O, triumph, br see, see, how the earth’s receding!’ br br Like steam from a boiling kettle, br the furious flow rushes by – br ‘See, see – no space for the earth br between the ravine and the sky.