Yes, flash them and clash them on ankle and wrist,
For we’re pilgrims to Dreamland, O Daughter of Dream!
There we find again all that we wasted or misst,
And Fancy—poor fool!—with her bauble’s supreme.
As the Moors in their exile the keys treasured still
Of their castles in Spain, so have I; and no fear
But the doors will fly open, whenever we will,
To the prime of the Past and the sweet of the year.
And so “my brook” passes into the ocean.