Sometimes in moods of gloom-like mist
Enswathing hill and wood-
A miracle of sunshine breaks
Into my solitude.
In scattered splendour burns the dew;
Still as in a dream, the trees
Their vaulted branches echo make
To the bird's ecstasies.
What secret influence was this
Made all dark brooding vain?
Has then the mind no inward sun?-
The mists cloud down again:
Stealthily drape the distant heights,
Blot out the songless tree:
Into cold silence flit the thoughts
That sang to me.
Walter de la Mare (1873 - 1956)