Blue-Grey, and white, and white-of-rose,
The flowers of the West's fore-dawn unclose.
I feel the dusky softness whirr
Of colour, as upon a dulcimer
"Her" dreaming fingers lay between the tunes,
As when the living music swoons
But dies not quite, because for love of us
--knowing our state
How that 'tis troublous--
It wills not die to leave us desolate.