Are little boats that dream
Of little journeys they will make;
Of journeys made no more.
—Far up the slopes gleam languid patches of midsummer snow that never go; dim flocks of snow among the rocks of a perched mountain meadow.—
Only the mountains are awake,
Guarding the vague low sky;
And a bird for its own song’s sake—
And I!
—Only a bird would dare to break the stillness of this hour; make of the shattered air this cool unbroken note—O tiny master-tool within the tiny throat!—
* * *