The skies they are opal and restless;
The trees they are verdant and gleam—
The trees they are wakening and gleam:
It is noon, in a May young and breathless
Near a pool in the Valley of Dreams:
There are charms in this tarn of the pinelands,
In the misted and mountainous hills:—
It is here ’mid the poplars and pinelands,
Where a poet seeks fate in the hills . . .