Sweet white mother of rose-white dreams, Through my windows the song of birds pours in And the sunlight on to my table streams.
As a clear globe prisons the golden light, So I prison the dreams you shed on me, Sweet white mother of dreams rose-white.
In a crystal globe I prison all things: Sound is frozen to silence there; Cover me over with wide white wings, Prison my life in thy crystal sphere, As a clear globe prisons the golden light, Sweet white mother of dreams rose-white.
SOLEIL COUCHANT
Love is but a wind that blows Over waves, or fields of corn, Floating petals, falling snows, The swift passing of the dawn.
These are all Love's signs, perchance, Floating, fragile, drifting things! Dead leaves are we in the dance, Moved by his unresting wings.
Love is light within thine eyes, Dearest! Love is all thy tears. Let us for this hour be wise: What have we to hope from years?