Of gold loop down to meet his wings,

Whose feathers arched their stillness through

Gleam with slow-gathering drops of dew.

The mouse-bat peers; the stealthy vole

Creeps from the covert of its hole;

A shimmering moth its pinions furls,

Grey in the moonshine of his curls;

'Neath the faint stars the night-airs stray,

Scattering the fragrance of the may;

And with each stirring of the bough

Shadow beclouds his childlike brow.

[Pg 32]

[Pg 32]

DREAMS

Be gentle, O hands of a child;

Be true: like a shadowy sea

In the starry darkness of night

Are your eyes to me.

But words are shallow, and soon

Dreams fade that the heart once knew;

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