White Clouds, Like Thistledown At Fault, That Drift Through Heaven'S Azure Vault. The Sun Beams Down; The Weedy Ground Vibrates With Many An Insect Sound. Blackberry-Lilies In The Noon Lean To The Creek With Eyes A-Swoon, Where, In A Shallow, Silver Gleams Of Minnows And A Heron Dreams An Old Road, Clouding Pale The Heat Behind A Slow Hoof'S Muffled Beat: And There, Hill-Gazing At The Skies, A Pond, Within Whose Languor Lies A Twinkle, Like An Eye That Smiles In Thought; That With A Dream Beguiles The Day: A. Dream Of Clouds That Drift, And Arms The Willow Trees Uplift, Protectingly, As If To Hide The Wildbird On Its Nest That Cried. Now Mists That Mass Thesunset-Dyes Build An Arabia In The Skies, Through Which The Sun In Pomp Retires, Torched To His Room With Saffron Fires; And 'Thwart His Palace Door Is Laid A Crescent Sign, A Moony Blade, Then Glittering In A Cloud Is Sheathed; And, Dripping Crimson, Fire-Wreathed, A Magic Scimetar Of Flame Is Slowly Drawn Before The Same. The Door Of Day Is Closed; Its Bar Put Up, One Bright And Golden Star; While, Crowding All The Corridors Of Dusk, The Shadows, Blackamoors Of Darkness, Glide; And Zephyrs Sweep Mist-Gowns Of Musk Through Halls Of Sleep Dim Odalisques Of Night, Who Wait Upon Their Lord Who Lies In State.