The pover of Song...

Today on the field and on the footpath
the sun shows its quiet and gentle mastery
over the dead leaves,
a brightening in time for- for what,
like snow on the bare hill,
or-to one's surprise yesterday -
like the free running tide
all light over drab flats
turning the muddy beach into a sea of pearls,
or as last night one could ponder,
under troubled clouds,
the still motion of reconciled stars,
or tonight opportunely one may see
the presiding element above the earth,
slow and undisturbed,
a golden moon in pools of water,
in puddles on the road
and in the debris of ditches,
as also tomorrow, as ever before,
the power of song shall purity woe...