Fortuitous Poem by Vladimir Nabokov

Summer soomerki—the lovely Russian phrase for dusk.
Time: a dim point in the first decade of this unpopular century.
Place: latitude 59 degrees north from your equator, longitude 100 degrees east from my writing hand.

The day would take hours to fade,
And everything—sky, tall flowers, still water—
Would be kept in a state of infinite vesperal suspense
Deepened rather than resolved
By a doleful moo of a cow in a distant meadow
Or by the still more moving cry that came from some bird
Beyond the lower course of the river,
Where the vast expanse of a misty-blue sphagnum bog,
Because of its mystery and remoteness,
The children had baptized America.