But even the rain, toward dusk, gets tired of it. It clears, and a spacious, surprised silence replaces the rain.

Only the eaves’ dripping admits it was here.

Walking down the slope, soaked with pine debris, you come to Lake George flush with the last evening sun, wetter and brighter now after the rain.

Across the bay the girl with gold hair’s perched on the raft in a refulgent ray.

In this limpid world you think you could swim to her, or float your voice over on the glassy air.