“Shadow-of-a-Leaf,” I whispered, for I saw
The crosier of a fern against the grey;
And, as the voice died, he stood dark before me.
“You sang as though you loved him. Let the mists
Unfold.”
He smiled. “See, first, that Rock,” he said,
“Dividing them.”
At once, through drifting wreaths
I saw a hill emerging, a green hill
Clothed with the dying rainbow of those tears