’Tis cool here. I sickened of heat and glare.
See you how yonder the white mists glide
Softly over the marshes wide?
Here it is neither dark nor light,
But midway between them—
[To herself.
—as in my breast.
[Looking at him.
Is’t not so—when you wander on such a night
You hear, though but half to yourself confessed,