J.
C.
Squire .
And tears away
the
darkening
pall
Cast
by
the
bright
phenomenal,
And
clears
the
obscured
spirit's mirror
From
shadows
of
deceptive
error,
And shows the bells
and
all
their
ringing
,
And all
the crowds
and
all their
singing
,
Carillons
that are
nothing
's
chimes
And dust
that
is
not
even
dust
.
But
rarely
hold
I
converse
thus
Where
shapes
are
bright and clamorous
,
More
often
comes
the word
divine
In
places motionless
and
far
;
Beneath
the white
peculiar
shine
Of sunless
summer
afternoons
;
At
eventide
on
pale
lagoons
Where
hangs
reflected
one
pale
star
;
Or
deep
in
the green
solitudes
Of still
erect
entrancéd
woods
.
0,
in
the woods
alone
lying
,
Scarce
a
bough
in
the
wind
sighing
,
Gaze
I
long
with
fervid
power
At leaf
and
branch
and
grass
and
flower
,
Breathe
I
breaths
of
trembling
sight
Shed
from
great
urns
of
green
delight
,
Take
I
draughts
and
drink
them
up
Poured
from
many
a
stalk
and
cup
.
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