Thursday, 13 December 2012



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)

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