Walter de la Mare


Who is it calling by the darkened river

Where the moss lies smooth and deep,

And the dark trees lean unmoving arms,

Silent and vague in sleep,

And the bright-heeled constellations pass

In splendour through the gloom;

Who is it calling o'er the darkened river

In music, "Come!"?

Who is it wandering in the summer meadows

Where the children stoop and play

In the green faint-scented flowers, spinning

The guileless hours away?

Who touches their bright hair? who puts

A wind-shell to each cheek,

Whispering betwixt its breathing silences,

"Seek! seek!"?

Who is it watching in the gathering twilight,

When the curfew bird hath flown

On eager wings, from song to silence,

To its darkened nest alone?

Who takes for brightening eyes the stars,

For locks the still moonbeam,

Sighs through the dews of evening peacefully

Falling, "Dream!"?