At the end of the street
a porch light is burning,
showing the way.
How simple, how perfect it seems:
How simple. how perfect it seems:
the darkness the white house like a passage
through summer and into a snowfield.
Night after night,
the lamp comes on,
comes on at dusk,
the end of the street
stands open and white,
an old woman sits there
tending the lonely gate.
How simple, how perfect it seems.