A Low mist clings To the dreaming vale ; all shape is blurred And blue and dim ; Above earth's eastern rim A slow rose flush Suffuses all the ribbed and spurred Far 'scape of cloud ;
No wind ; rin hint of life ; a hush—
Until, minute, on undiscerned wings, As by some unseen painter towed, A fleet of rooks drifts slowly through air's sea ; To m: is faintly borne A long-drawn " caw "—as though some chord is rent, And sound from new, unpractised throat set free . . .
It might almost be Earth's first misty morn—
These the first living things Exploring, in half-articulate wonderment, On unvolitional wings,