Mood after mood, its subtle secret hid,
Plies in the earth and has its moody way,
Patient or swift—to build a pyramid,
Or strike a Phidias from the quickened clay ...
A reverie, that is cities on a hill,
Or laughter trembling in a daffodil.
CLEAR MORNING
The air is full of thin and blowing bells
Whose delicate, faint music breaks and swells
For every lightest wind, and dies unheard,—
Unless it be by some leaf-hidden bird,
Or some shy faun who listens in the reeds,
If haply there be tunes to suit his needs.