THE CLOUDS
Sun’s spirit is calling !
We gather together,
White wreaths, as appalling
Pale ghosts of dead weather,
The veil of us falling
On snow-height and heather,
Or hovering and scrawling
Strange signs in the zther.
We hear the still voice, and we know him:
we come!
We are sightless and dumb.
ORPHEUS
More frail than your friends,
The clouds borne above,
The light of thee blends
With the moon and her love.
Thy spirit descends
As a white-throated dove.
Come forth! I invoke thee, O mist, and make me a
sharer thereof!
THE MIST
From valleys of violet
My shadow hath kissed,
From low-lying islet,
A vision of mist,
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