The angels keep their ancient places;
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.
Echoes of Dreams
Into the dream-fields of summer, I will go
where the violet-winged bird turns
and flies, over emotions of stone.
I will search for those estranged faces one by one,
among echoes and beside rivers of starfalls,
I will drift alone, turning and freeing emotions of stone.
Into the forgotten fields of Summer dreams, I will go-
seeking the splendour of echoes of streams
Into the misted realms of the violet-winged bird
I will flee, turning, freeing emotions of stone
alone like a free thought above and below
I will flit, I will drift, I will seek, I will go
into the starfalls of echoes of dreams.