I I said, "It is your voice I hear," But it was the clear Curving of bells at twilight. I said, "It is you who breathe, who stir," But it was the whir Of beating wings, It was the stir Of dazzled shadowy things That come before night. II Sweet as the thinned Light silver of flutes, Swift as the edge of wind, You come who sheathe Yourself in brightness, Who wreathe Your sharp whiteness In curving lines of gold. The stunned light Recedes to let you pass: The hard Clear day is marred, Like a cracked glass. III Let it be you After the gold ebbing of hours And the hot noon sweetness; After the languor And the bright drooped floowers. |