The Darkness and the Light Are Both Alike to Thee

By Anthony Hecht

Like trailing silks, the light

Hangs in the olive trees

As the pale wine of day

Drains to its very lees:

Huge presences of gray

Rise up, and then it’s night.

Distantly lights go on.

Scattered like fallen sparks

Bedded in peat, they seem

Set in the plushest darks

Until a timid gleam

Of matins turns them wan,

Like the elderly and frail

Who’ve lasted through the night,

Cold brows and silent lips,

For whom the rising light

Entails their own eclipse,

Brightening as they fall.