THE MIST

The mist lies low above the sleepy meadow,
A veil of whispers soft and serene.
Through phantom trees, the silver shadows grow,
Where dreams of night fades into morning’s sheen.
Awake to see a world wrapped in this screen—
Yet hints of color start to break apart,
As sunlit rays, with tender touch, convene,
To paint anew the landscape from the heart.

• Walter Deverell