Blue hour on hour;

And from my safe pillow I follow

Their granite flight,

White hills fastened to my heels!

*  *  *

Morning lies prone upon the lake,

Like a pale woman on a silver bed

Who will not lift her head.

—I had forgotten the green of trees at dawn, and how withdrawn are they from day. I had forgotten too how trees stray in their sleep across deep drowsy water, until the first breeze ripples them away.—

Along the shore