Considering Corot

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.

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