Winter Sunrise

IT is early morning within this room; without,
Dark and damp; without and within, stillness
Waiting for day; not a sound hut a listening air.
Yellow jasmine, delicate on stiff branches,
Stands in a Tuscan pot, to delight the eye
In spare December’s patient nakedness.
Suddenly, softly, as if at a breath breathed
On the pale wall, a magical apparition.
The shadow of the jasmine, branch and blossom!
It was not there, it is there, in a perfect image;
And all is changed. It is like a memory lost
Returning without a reason into the mind;
And it seems to mo that the beauty of the shadow
Is more beautiful than the flower; a strange beauty,
Penciled and silently deepening to distinctness
As a memory stealing out of the mind’s slumber,
A memory floating up from a dark water,
Can be more beautiful than the thing remembered.