It traced the seven-coloured bow.
It spoke of rifts in frothy clouds,
Of silent lakes illumed with stars,
Of earth-mirage in misty air,
Of spirit force that light unbars.
The trees were still and hearkened now;
But shallow cups hold little draught
And soon the weary listeners tired,
Some curled their leaves, while others laughed.
Then beauty spilled and fell to earth