11 MARCH 1966, Page 26

Mist Mist fills my memory, Mist and fingers of rain;

I stare at the rain all day, Watching its long nails tear The light; all summer freeze, Even in sunlight hear The dripping trees.

—Mist, and silence, broken: No, not broken, torn By the one melancholy Edged and soggy note That drifts in the valley, fit For memory only, For dreams, or memory.

Silence as close, as heavy As mist on the unseen lake Where all we have forgotten Lies washed (the low notes break On mist and dripping rock) Lies warm and gentle rotten, Hearing the Alpenhorn.