At that moment, to my right, beyond the window that faces the back garden, a robin began to sing. The garden, in the shadow of the house, was already dark. Yet the robin -- somewhere in a cherry tree or an apple tree (I could not see him or her) -- sang and sang.
As the robin sang, I read this poem:
Gratitude to the Unknown Instructors
What they undertook to do
They brought to pass;
All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass.
W. B. Yeats, The Winding Stair and Other Poems (Macmillan 1933).
Giffard Lenfestey (1872-1943), "Evening, the Stream"