When I was wandering on the Downs to-day
I saw the pine-woods sleeping in the sun . . .
For they were tired of weaving shadow-nets—
Weaving all day in vain . . . in vain . . . in vain . . .
Pale phantom nets to snare the golden sun!
And then I thought of how the poets weave
With shadowy words their cunning nets of song,
Hoping to catch, at last, a shining dream!