A tangle of soft things to rustle by the stream,
Where Moira, my white dove, whose beauty is my sorrow,
Would sit with me and travel on the long bright dream,
Travel with the water from the mountain to the meadow,
Down across the lowlands and gaily to the sea,
Out beyond the breakers to the shimmer of a far line
Poised and trembling within the heart of me.
What shall I murmur to coax the dream of beauty
Out from the shadows to welcome in the dawn?
How shall I sing it that she may know the glory,