A way lies over these blue fields of sleep,
Lingers in short, sweet grasses, glimmers white
Through woods of silver birch trees, where in deep
Green quietness the winds lie hid from sight.
Meadow and stream and house of lighted window,
Each listens for the sound of passing feet,
And knows my step again, and gives me welcome
In still ways and sweet.

It is not strange at all that you should pass,
Turn back and smile, stand presently in dream
Beside the little coppice on the stream,
Where willow leaves lie tangled in the grass.
It is not strange at all that there should be
The little fallen leaves, caught in your dress,
And your voice saying forgotten things to me,
Forgotten tenderness.

Hardly I wonder that we walk together,
And talk of simple things, winds, birds, and skies,
Or that lost dreams laugh suddenly in greeting
From the dark woods in your eyes.
But standing with the shadow of dawn above us
By the grey stream’s broken gleaming,
We whisper thanks to those old gods that love us,
For night, for dreaming.