THE little cloud curled on the hill,
Night’s filmy dream-shape, lingering still;
Some glint from out the shining day
Which would not follow him away,
But wanders yet by wood and stream,
Betwixt a shadow and a gleam ;
The subtile breath of thicket bowers,
Sweet as with spirits of the flowers;
The airy hammers of the rain,
Tapping, then instant still again;
The timid, whispered minstrelsy
Of winds beginning in the tree, —
Could I repeat what ’t is these say to me,
Then would I be high priest of wizardry.