Before Toledo

STILL from the bastion’s burnished shade
I watched the Spanish crimson fade
On sky and wing.
When suddenly
I felt a mystery circling me
And looked upon a phantom sea,
A white and muffled dreaming flow
As from some shore of long ago —
The sheep moved with their single wide
Billowing of eventide.
There as I knelt in the silver light
Touching the wool, a music fell
That sounded like a muted bell;
I heard a lonely shepherd call
In slow patois, ‘Under this wall
Nine hundred eighty sleep to-night’ —
And I heard the word of the white fleece:
For every hill the end is peace.