Wrapped in a cloak Of grey mystery, Fog, the magician, Steals tip-toe out of the sea. In seven-league boots He skims across the sky, Blowing out the sun, Blotting out the blue. On cobweb wires he slides to earth, Glides through gardens surreptitiously, And sponges every color out of flowers. Churches, houses, trees, He wipes like chalky outlines from a board. Fog says -- "Presto!" And birds turn into nothing as they fly, Men grow vague and vanish. Fog lifts his hands! And motor-cars roll off into a void, Dogs evaporate, Cats dissolve to bodiless meows. Noiselessly, peacefully, The old world ends. Nothing remains But fog and me and another world to be. Slowly, dimly, I seem to feel A little of the wonder and the joy That must have gladdened God in the beginning, Creation before him. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO HIS MISTRESS by ABRAHAM COWLEY SUMMER MATURES by HELENE JOHNSON BEAUTY ROHTRAUT by EDUARD FRIEDRICH MORIKE FANCIES AT NAVESINK: 7 by WALT WHITMAN THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH by WALT WHITMAN PHRYGES: JUSTICE PROTECTS THE KING by AESCHYLUS |