’Tis this which is the music all things sing—
The crocus dawn—the sunset crimsoning.
XXXIX
Late met we last night by the lake again
When faint for dawn I felt the dark to be;
Mist-veiled, the water lay all silently,
An opal, mystic, dim, Hungarian.
Beneath its milky whiteness I knew when
The call of day came crisping clear and free,
Troubling within the trees birds dream-drowsy