Indifferent to sleep.
’Tis then our footprints turn to gold,
For these are Love’s eternal hours,
That follow me in loneliness;
How often, when the leaves are listening,
I clasp white hands, I do not feel,
More delicate than touch of moonbeams in the grass;
’Tis then the thoughts arise like incense from a silver bowl.
We never hurry through the flowers,
Or miss the color of a dreaming rose,