“THY VOICE FROM INMOST DREAMLAND CALLS”

By William Watson

Thy voice from inmost dreamland calls;

The wastes of sleep thou makest fair;

Bright o'er the ridge of darkness falls

The cataract of thy hair.

The morn renews its golden birth:

Thou with the vanquished night dost fade;

And leav'st the ponderable earth

Less real than thy shade.