Orpheus

THE CLOUDS Sun’s spirit is calling ! We gather together, White wreaths, as appalling Pale ghosts of dead weather, The veil of us falling On snow-height and heather, Or hovering and scrawling Strange signs in the zther. We hear the still voice, and we know him: we come! We are sightless and dumb. ORPHEUS More frail than your friends, The clouds borne above, The light of thee blends With the moon and her love. Thy spirit descends As a white-throated dove. Come forth! I invoke thee, O mist, and make me a sharer thereof! THE MIST From valleys of violet My shadow hath kissed, From low-lying islet, A vision of mist, 40