The music of the morning is red and warm;
Snow lies against the walls;
And on the sloping roof in the yellow
Pigeons huddle against the wind.
The music of evening is attenuated and thin —The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid;
The crying of a violin.
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west,
The delicate lights begin to
On the dusky arches of the bridge:
In the green sky a long cloud,
A smouldering wave of smoky crimson,
Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed,
Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant,
Sings the first star.
