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Poem

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep
Where dreams are blown out of the shallow hills
And I, in my solitude, do rejoice
As I take my comfort within their voice
Which visits me as the cool evening stills
And is rinsed by raindrops that mildly weep.

Gone is the rainbow and tincture of day
Lost in the clouds as they swim in the air
And I, in my quietness, drift afar
By merely the light of a silver'd star
Where only the souls of the sleeping dare
Seek a place that is distant - far away.

In the deepest of night, the dead of dark,
When the silent shadows hide from the light
For, shadows are secrets mellowed by age
And, ages are timeless, robbed of their rage,
And rage is bewildered, lost in the night
Yet, still sighs its echo deafingly stark.

Where is the morning to dazzle and glow ?
Where are the sunbeams to fever the heart ?
Yes! morning will come, as sure as the winds,
When the grey of the dusk slowly rescinds
And the fields of sleep will fleetly depart
And the dreams of the hills aimlessly go.

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