Sometimes in moods of gloom—like mist
Enswathing hill and wood—
A miracle of sunshine breaks
Into my solitude.

In scattered splendour burns the dew;
Still as in dream, the trees
Their vaulted branches echo make
To the birds' ecstasies.

What secret influence was this
Made all dark brooding vain?
Has then the mind no inward sun?—
The mists cloud down again:

Stealthily drape the distant heights,
Blot out the songless tree:
Into cold silence flit the thoughts
That sang to me.
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