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All through the night I am aware
Of hills that are not hills
Beyond my window;
I am aware of flight,
High, heavy,
Across the sky.
Of hills that are not hills
Beyond my window;
I am aware of flight,
High, heavy,
Across the sky.
Mountains—
And over them a crumbling moon,
A snow-flake on fire,
Scattered from their frosty tips.
And over them a crumbling moon,
A snow-flake on fire,
Scattered from their frosty tips.
Stone wings,
So sure of the way!
So sure of the way!
Lying there I can see them
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.
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withdrawn are they from day.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.—
withdrawn are they from day.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.—
102
