I step into the mist of his early morning as if I were still clad in a dream, gauzed in vapors of night, with silver
tufts hanging on cold, green grass
under gray skies rent by the sun
with a pale, caressing gleam.
Is it I, in that diffused luster,
leaning against the poplar tree,
its leaves fine and light as feathers?
Indeed, I am at one with him
who invited nature into his studio
and nature came, in all her mystery.