THERE is a time of subtle browns, and grays That run to silverings, and tremulous greens, And russet tints, and ash-pale pools of leaves; Of ghostly mosses and elusive grass That's neither lush nor dead; of naked trees Ineffably harmonious with the sky That stretches vast and neutral, tone on tone, Not to be called a color, but a thought. To some this is a barren time, a sleep Between the winter and the spell of spring; To me it is the heart's own time and tide, Being hidden from the heedless eye that lusts For flaring lights and sunset dyes, yet charged With secrets rare, and blendings into dreams, And ecstasies divine that shadow forth A mystery, the Selah of the Soul. |