The music of the morning is red and warm; br Snow lies against the walls; br And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight br Pigeons huddle against the wind. br The music of evening is attenuated and thin — br The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid; br The crying of a violin. br Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west, br The delicate lights begin to twinkle br On the dusky arches of the bridge: br In the green sky a long cloud, br A smouldering wave of smoky crimson, br Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed, br Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant, br Sings the first star.