T N this veiled hush before the next soft shower, 
Listen— ? tis he, my Lord the blackbird sings, 
A wizard chanting from his haunted tower 
Legends of lost innumerable Springs. 
Long, long ago, and far, and far away, 
These golden falls, these strange legates seem 
To raise the ghost of a forgotten day, 
Or thread the dim maze of some distant dream. 
Between the wet woods and the clouded skies 
His spell is wrought—the immemorial rune 
That charms me back to that lost land which lies 
East of the Sun and westward of the Moon. 
