  WITH moon-white hearts that held a gleam I gathered wild flowers in a dream, And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood Was odour of the wildwood bud. From dew, the starlight arrowed through, I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue; The lids, that on her eyeballs lay, Were rose-pale petals of the May. I took the music of the breeze, And water whispering in the trees, And shaped the soul that breathed below A woman’s blossom breasts of snow. Out of a rose-bud’s veins I drew The fragrant crimsom beating through The languid lips of her, whose kiss Was as a poppy’s drowsiness. Out of the moonlight and the air I wrought the glory of her hair, That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven lay Like some gold cloud o’er dawn of day. A shadow’s shadow in the glass Of sleep, my spirit saw her pass; And, thinking of it now, meseems We only live within our dreams. For in that time she was to me More real than our reality; More real than Earth, more real than I— The unreal things that pass and die. |
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