The speaker stands looking through a tree in early spring, catching a partial view of a pale dome in the distance. The new leaves are thick enough to half-hide it, and the thin sunlight turns its top faintly gold against a misty white sky. Everything is damp and soft: the branches are swollen with spring growth, and the wind that moves them is wet. The dome seems almost to float, appearing and disappearing as the branches open and close over it.
The mood is quiet and a little dreamlike. There is no argument or story here, just an act of noticing. The speaker seems absorbed in the way light, weather, and new growth change what can be seen, letting the distant building become something delicate and momentary rather than solid.