A TREMBLING crest Of smoke, the winter sky Congeals to bloom, To please a poet's eye: A slender reed Arisen from some gold Recess or womb Of flame to spaces cold. Between the twigs, That for a nest are spun On flight's grey loom, A sapphire thread may run: And so between the grey, The woven boughs of trees, A little plume Of mist the poet sees: It will suffice -- Too scant a breath to name -- For him to whom It signifies a flame. |