Dead fish, silver, shining, as young moons are;
Out o’er that azure distance pure as prayer
I looked and knew that that night storms dwelled there.
XXXIV
Just as we left the lake I saw near by
A night-bird sheltered in a black pine’s shade,
By bold bright thunder of the light dismayed,
There fled to shelter till dusk touched the sky.
Within his mimic night he nestled nigh
Unto the great tree’s trunk, blinking, afraid;