thanksgiving poem

i love my hour of wind and light
weak-winged is song
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
i reside at table mountain
along the banks
we break the glass whose sacred wine
i wonder where you live
as evening falls
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
what was it the engines said
little gate was reached at last
and how could you dream of meeting
a look is but a ray