Dreaming

The moan of a wintry soul

Melted into a summer song,

And the words, like the wavelet's roll,

Moved murmuringly along.

And the song flowed far and away,

Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill —

Each wave of it lit by a ray —

But the sound was so soft and so still,

And the tone was so gentle and low,

None heard the song till it had passed;

Till the echo that followed its flow

Came dreamingly back from the past.

‘ Twas too late! — a song never returns

That passes our pathway unheard;

As dust lying dreaming in urns

Is the song lying dead in a word.

For the birds of the skies have a nest,

And the winds have a home where they sleep,

And songs, like our souls, need a rest,

Where they murmur the while we may weep.

But songs — like the birds o'er the foam,

Where the storm wind is beating their breast,

Fly shoreward — and oft find a home

In the shelter of words where they rest.