Tidings

Listen, I who love thee well

Have travelled far, and secrets tell;

Cold the moon that gleams thine eyes,

Yet beneath her further skies

Rests for thee, a paradise.

I have plucked a flower in proof,

Frail, in earthly light, forsooth:

See, invisible it lies

In this palm: now veil thine eyes:

Quaff its fragrancies!

Would indeed my throat had skill

To breathe thee music, faint and still --

Music learned in dreaming deep

In those lands, from Echo's lip....

'Twould lull thy soul to sleep.