Saturday, September 23, 2017

The Dreamer


If in the greenwood of a dream
I sit as still
As still may be, and hold my breath
And listen, till

Soft rustlings of a leaf I hear,
A whispering bough;
Catch a swift, guarded glance that darts
From a branch - now

If in that greenwood wild and sweet
I stay so still
As if a breath would wreck the world.
If I wait, till

I hear a soft, soft sound that seems
Scarce sound, but more
The thinking of a bird that first
Is murmuring lore

Half-way remembered by his throat -
Catching a note
Before he flings to melody,
Be-starred, remote -

There in that woodland, while I stay
Unmoving, come.
If I am grown into the moss.
Things that were dumb.

Songs of remembered, unchanged dreams
Float close to me;
Souls that were hid slip out from flowers,
Leap from each tree.

But when I move to snatch, to trap
A song, a soul -
With the first finger's-breadth I stir.
Lost is the whole!

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