How beautiful the rising of the mist
From the low pools where sun and water kissed
All afternoon, their disembodied grace
Now drifting white-winged to my waiting face;
Their warm-breathed loves, so openly avowed
In face of day and green, are now a cloud
That wraps me silent in the growing night;
I stand upon the hilltop, wear their white —
The daylight’s shine, the water’s naiad gleam,
Their kiss now cold as nightfall, pale as dream;
I wrap their kisses round me in the deep
Invisibility of moonlight, sleep
And silence and the rising moon that makes
A cloud of kisses till tomorrow wakes.
Context note: This poem is a tribute to the beauty of the summer mists that rise at night around my new home. Green hills, plenty of rain, chickens next door, and cattle across the road--this is an old and beautiful world in which to live.