Once, where the boundary reached to the stream,
there stood some fruit-trees, shadows in the dawn,
overlooking the bright silver lawn.
Half-glow, half moment taken out of dream:
With noisy birds, and winds half-set to scream,
half-set to tunefully announce the morn.
This is the place from which we watch the sky
blend new-pale blue into the glassy sea,
and listen for the little splash of tide
to sound the opening drumbeat of the day.
We hear the seagulls chant against the dry
Traces of cloud, which seem to bend and flee,
while, in the distance, blackfish sing and play.
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