  GEO. KLINGLE. A distant line of misty hills, A stretch of meadow low, With wreaths of brush a-skirt the woods, Midst fabrics spun of snow: A vista through the forest trees— A temple if you choose, With pictured screen and arabesque, Mosaic's dusky hues, Dim mullioned windows half confessed Beyond far-columned aisles, And arches lost and found anew Through tracery's defiles; A roof?... we might perchance ascribe The misty, stooping sky Beyond the wreaths of crystal Swung where winds go singing by. Beneath, where worshiper might tread A glimpse of crystal tile, Caught through the weeds and tangled reeds Which guard the near defile. A myriad forms a-glint and white Close, close beneath the feet; Fantastic hands that reach across A myriad hands to greet; Low shrubs in fleecy, white array, Tall stems with hood and wings, And vines a-glint in crystal lace Wound through fantastic rings; And grasses frosted into gems; Near by a bough bent down With such a wealth of clinging leaves Stained deep in ruddy brown. These and the woods' low breath of song Just now across the way; To-morrow?... visions change, you know, To meet each hour of day. |
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