They dream not that the sheen on peacock's breast,
The haze and perfume of a Summer's day,
The silver stealing o'er the twilight West
Are joys more rich than all the world's display."
[MIST]
Mist on the sea; like a great bird's pendulous wing,
Broken and hushed; it trails on the face of the main,
Down comes the sun, a red shot from a merciful sling
Burning its heart with swift death as an end to the pain.