WHEAT AND WINE. 
 
CLEAR, deep, and blue, the sky 
Is silvered by the morn, 
And where the dewdrop’s eye 
Catches its brilliancy 
Strange lights and hues are born : 
I have seen twelve colours hover on a single spray 
of thorn. 
 
There is a great grey tower 
Cut clear against the deep ; 
In the sun’s wakening hour 
I think it has the power 
To touch the soul of sleep 
With its tender thought, and bid me to awake for 
joy—and weep. 
 
This night I am earlier, 
No drowsy thought drew nigh 
 
77