  Dappled with the moon’s beam, I did with a Stranger talk, And his name was Dream. Spurred his heel, dark his cloak, Shady-wide his bonnet’s brim; His horse beneath a silvery oak Grazed as I talked with him. Softly his breast-brooch burned and shone; Hill and deep were in his eyes; One of his hands held mine, and one The fruit that makes men wise. Wonderly strange was earth to see, Flowers white as milk did gleam; Spread to Heaven the Assyrian Tree Over my head with Dream. Dews were still betwixt us twain; Stars a trembling beauty shed; Yet—not a whisper comes again Of the words he said. |
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