Winter's waste was harsh as she commenced us
Withering, shivering shells of carcass
Made materials. But mayn't silence us.
Blue and purple the phrase meticulous.
So the golden queens of Iceland
Shall dissolve from flakes in brief sunlight's touch.
Gleaming streams of silver sewn on beach sands
By some moonlight, stretching over white dusts,
Grey silks, laid on sea's soft sapphire, flamed spots,
Placing those hands where the nebulous black
Goes not, save in glimmering rain drops.
Knowing nought but how chills race on my back,
I can now allow this sight to calm me,
As is done by no works or memory.
"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings."
-The Lake Isle of Innisfree