Like notes which die when born, but still haunt the echoes of the hill
Like oceans of liquid silver
Like one pale star against the dusk, a single diamond on her brow gleamed with imprisoned fire
Like one who halts with tired wings
Like one who talks of what he loves in dream
Like organ music came the deep reply
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream
Like phantoms gathered by the sick imagination
Like planets in the sky
Like pouring oil on troubled waters