In the dim light of frond and green, The sharp raindrops pierce the tender leaves, And the soft mist sounds around your feet; In the droning vale of flowers, fairest, it heaves, A serene motion, with the wafted breeze. In the dying moments of shade, Where birds sing with melodious lifts, In the low valleys upon the wide hill, Forgotten songs find their gentle rifts.

• Ezra Pound