Fog in August is strange, far inland as we are, Yet the pool was faint with fog beneath the morning star, And the willows dripped with dimness, and strange birds were flying Over the pallid water with inconsolable crying. Long-legged cranes from marshes, or from some far-off sea, Lighting upon a naked branch of the half-dead cottonwood tree; Crying with desolate voices over an inland pool, Crying for wide sea-reaches, or marshes deep and cool ... The day was hot by noon, and the ghostly birds were gone. But I have seen cranes flying ... crying in the foggy dawn. |