There Is Peace in the Surging Bow
-- Tomas Tranströmer 

On a winter morning you feel how this earth
plunges ahead. Against the house walls
an air current smacks
out of hiding. 

Surrounded by movement: the tent of calm.
And the secret helm in the migrating flock.
Out of the winter gloom
a tremolo rises  

from hidden instruments. It is like standing
under summer's high lime tree with the din
of ten thousand
insect wings above your head.

(1954; trans Robert Fulton)