Iv

Or in the peace that follows storm, when Even, Within the west, stands dreaming, lone and far, Clad on with green and silver, and the Heaven Is brightly brooched with one gold-glittering star, I will lie down beside a mountain lake, Round which the tall pines sigh, And, breathing musk of rain from boughs that shake Storm balsam, blowing by, Make friends of Dream and Contemplation high, And Music, listening to the mocking-bird,-- Who through the hush sends its melodious cry,-- And so forget a while that other word, That all loved things must die.