Listening

There is a place of grass With daisies like white pools, Or shining islands in a sea Of brightening waves.

Swallows, darting, brush The waves of gentle green, As though a wide still lake it were, Not living grass.

Evening draws over all, Grass and flowers and sky, And one rich bird prolongs the sweet Of day on the edge of dark.

The grass is dim, the stars Lean down the height of heaven; And the trees, listening in all their leaves, Scarce-breathing stand.

Nothing is as it was: The bird on the bough sings on; The night, pure from the cloud of day, Is listening.