Dark enough,
And a young moon fresh in the glimmerdim.
Late enough,
And the fireflies, risen from the grass, constellate the trees.
Still enough,
And you, too, risen from yourself, untranslatable.
Free enough,
And no longer fastened to a dying animal,
As in the south silent lightning pulsed,
And caught the heart off guard,
And blew it open.
—ultimate lines from Seamus Heaney's Postscript
