Rise in the cool dim dawn
When a mist is hung on the pane-
The loose gray cobweb of the fog
Spun by the rain.
When the sun’s long golden fingers
Have brushed it away—then go
And watch the sky through the tree-tops
Fall like snow.
And after, when you are tired
And twilight hangs on the leaves,
Listen and the silence will tell you
Why it grieves.
For the fog, the sky and the twilight
Are the cobwebs that brush the eyes
When a man would enter the dusty door
Of paradise.
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