by Wendell Berry, [1934–2026][1] [1]: https://www.nytimes.com/2026/08/31/us/wendell-berry-dead.html?unlocked_article_code=1.91A.kzSe.OosmZa9s-KgK&smid=url-share > Slowly, slowly, they return > To the small woodland let alone: > Great trees, outspreading and upright, > Apostles of the living light. > > Patient as stars, they build in air. > Tier after tier a timbered choir. > Stout beams upholding weightless grace > Of song, a blessing on this place. > > They stand in waiting all around, > Uprisings of their native ground, > Downcomings of the distant light; > They are the advent they await. > > Receiving sun and giving shade, > Their life's a benefaction made, > And is a benediction said > Over the living and the dead. > > In fall their brightened leaves, released, > Fly down the wind, and we are pleased > To walk on radiance, amazed. > O light come down to earth, be praised!