And having stayed the tearing buzzard beak
With breadroot and the waters of the rill,
Slept till the white of morning o’er the hill
Was like a whisper groping in a hush.
The stream’s low trill seemed loud. The tumbled brush
And rumpled tree-tops in the flat below,
Upon a fog that clung like spectral snow,
Lay motionless; nor any sound was there.
No frost had fallen, but the crystal air
Smacked of the autumn, and a heavy dew