The Garden Of Dreams

One day, when summer suns were kind, I walked within my soul's domain, Where inner summer held its reign, And heard a voice, like some small wind That wakes a breath, then sleeps again. It said: 'I come as messenger From garths of dream whose flowers blow Where clouds go by and waters flow Secret from thee; and breezes stir Whose birth or death thou dost not know. If thou wouldst have their faery blooms, Send forth a thought to pluck them there Most speedily: for, being more fair Than earthly flow'rs, and with perfumes No sun-conceived blossoms hear, Fleeter than these, their hues are lost, Their fragrance as a spirit fled.' Then, like a wind, the voice was dead. In other flow'rs of dream engrossed, I left those dreams unharvested; Until, bethinking me of them, I sent a thought in bloomless hours: Returning soon, it said, 'The flow'rs Are vanished from each withered stem - A harvest of the winds and show'rs.'