Dreamland: Morning

Subtle the mist that rises from the stream,
Blowing, and silver, and faint as a dream,
As it curls back and forth over the waters
That in the morning's light softly gleam
With the fair freshness of Faerie's daughters.

Glinting, the shafts of bright light strike through
The glowing mist downward to caress the blue
Surface of the stream, the light sky in reverse
As the sun makes the world over anew
Into day, and daybreak takes the universe.

The colors are delicate: the silver of the net
Of mist spread over the glimmering wet
Is softer than starlight, softer than eyes
That look down from behind the sunset
To gaze upon the world, innocent and wise.

There is the blue that is less of blue than
Some color with no name in the tongue of man.
It has a shiver to it that suggests no jewel
Has ever borne its name, either, or can.
It is found now in both sky and pool.

Then there are the trees that, sight unseen,
Gaze down through the mist to cast their sheen
Over the water, not disturbing the flow.
They spread a fragile skein of mossy green
Over the waters as from morning they go.

But for the moment, the hurrying stream
Is of no importance; it is the sky's gleam
And the mist that hold one's attention.
This is a dawn in the land of the dream,
A moment of breathless wonder held in suspension.

A quiver, a tremble, and the moment is lost
The mist breaks away like early autumn frost,
And scatters of silver fly into the forest.
The trees see the web that they have tossed,
And are caught up in the coming day's chorus.

But this moment, at the same time, lives forever.
It cannot be banished, or made less; and never
Shall the magic that lives at this time die.
Tomorrow will come again the early sun to sever,
Just for a moment, time's and earth's tie.